


From the Ashes

by fourth_rose



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, M/M, Ministry of Magic, Post-Hogwarts, Post-War, Pureblood Culture, Slytherins, Wizarding Politics, prejudices, written before book 7
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-04
Updated: 2009-12-04
Packaged: 2017-10-04 03:55:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 59,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fourth_rose/pseuds/fourth_rose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Voldemort is dead. The war is over, but moving on can be harder than expected - especially if you're not sure to which side you belong anymore. Harry and Pansy don't have much in common, yet they find themselves in an uneasy alliance in their attempt to save what's left from everything that was dear to them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written before the publication of "Deathly Hallows" and is therefore not compliant with book 7-canon.

**From the Ashes  
Prologue**

by Fourth Rose

_Libera me, Domine, de morte aeterna  
In die illa tremenda quando coeli movendi sunt et terra..._

Deliver me, O Lord, from eternal death  
On that terrible day when the heavens and earth shall be shaken...

(Catholic funeral mass)

  
* * *

  
The words flow by Harry's ears without making sense. He's never learned much Latin, no more than was necessary for spells, and the priest is speaking quickly, obviously eager to get the ceremony over with. The weather is bad: overcast and damp; the rain has stopped a while ago, but the few people that are gathered around the open grave are still tightly wrapped in their cloaks, hoods pulled over their heads. It's cold for mid-April, and besides, they probably don't want to be recognized.

He has not deserved this.

Then again, so many people have not deserved what has happened to them in the past week. Harry frowns at the thought. Has it really only been one week? No more than seven days? It seems like seven years to him.

A week ago, Ginny and Arthur and Tonks and Padma and Oliver and dozens of others he's known were still alive. Voldemort was too, and Harry still believed that it would take no more than his enemy's death to end the ongoing nightmare that his own life had become.

He did not really expect to survive the end of the war, back then. He also never expected that, should he survive, he'd wish that he hadn't.

Yet here he is, standing in a small graveyard somewhere in Wiltshire, listening to a funeral rite he doesn't understand and trying to ignore the looks the others are throwing him. To them, he doesn't belong here. He doesn't blame them for their hostility; he feels out of place himself.

The priest prattles on. Harry tries to listen to him, but the few isolated words he is able to discern mean nothing to him. _Judgement... fear... light... ashes... rest... _

"Potter."

The deep voice startles him; he has not heard anyone approaching. Harry turns around and looks into the pale, grim face of Severus Snape.

Snape ignores his astonished expression; he only nods at him and then stands beside Harry, obviously listening to the service. Harry swallows twice before he is able to speak.

"What are you doing here?"

Snape doesn't even look at him. "I'm attending a funeral, Potter, as it is unfortunately so often the case in these dark days."

Some years ago, the reserved tone would have shut Harry up. He doesn't have such qualms any longer.

"That's not what I meant." _And you know it very well_, he adds silently. "I'm asking why you're here with _me_. Last time we met, you didn't seem too keen on my company."

"I'm keen on very few people's company, most of whom are dead now anyway. However, Miss Parkinson asked me to stay with you during the rest of the service."

Surprised, Harry glances around until he spots Pansy Parkinson, clad in deep black, her dark hair plastered to her round face in wet tendrils. She's not looking at anyone, but instead keeps her gaze fixed on the open grave, her expression unreadable.

"Why?"

"Because she did not want the ceremony to be interrupted by some unpleasant incident, I suppose. The people who are present today might be under the impression that you are here to gloat."

Harry clenches his hands into fists. _Don't let it get to you. Not now._ "Is that what you think?"

Snape remains silent for a moment; his head is slightly cocked to the side, as if he were suddenly listening intently to the words the priest is reciting: "_Libera eas de ore leonis, ne absorbeat eas tartarus, ne cadant in obscurum... _"

He is frowning when he finally answers, "I can't say I understand the motivation behind your presence here, Potter, but I doubt you would lower yourself to that."

Harry exhales slowly and only then realizes he has been holding his breath. "Thank you." It's surprisingly easy to say; there hasn't been enough time or energy to spare during those endless years of war to keep hating Snape the way he once used to.

Snape remains silent; the priest has stepped closer to the grave and raised his hand in a gesture of blessing. Harry suddenly notices he is no longer speaking Latin, but has started reciting the text everyone in the wizarding world knows only too well these days:

"_...thus, we commend to God our brother Draco Lucius Malfoy, and we commit his body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust... the Lord bless him and keep him, the Lord make his face to shine upon him and be gracious unto him and give him peace..._ "

Harry hears the words he has heard twenty, fifty, maybe a hundred times before, and suddenly it is real. The haze that seems to have surrounded him since he received the news those three days ago dissolves and leaves him with the unyielding certainty that this is not a dream.

Draco is gone.

  
* * *

  
**References: **  
Libera eas de ore leonis, ne absorbeat eas tartarus, ne cadant in obscurum: Deliver them from the jaws of the lion, lest hell engulf them, lest they be plunged into darkness. (Catholic funeral mass)


	2. Chapter 2

**From the Ashes  
Part One**

by Fourth Rose

_In secret we met - in silence I grieve  
(Lord Byron, When we two parted)_

  
* * *

  
The priest has finished his rites; the heavy granite slab has been closed over the coffin. One by one, the mourners walk back to the gate to Apparate out of the cemetery - all except the forbidding dark figure next to Harry who won't leave his side even once they're alone. Only now, without the hateful glares of the crowd, can Harry bring himself to approach the grave. Snape follows him silently.

For a long time, all that Harry can do is stare at the simple grey headstone which shows nothing but the Malfoy family crest and a short inscription:

_Draco Lucius Malfoy_   
_1980-2005_   
_ Non diu, sed totus_

He hears a sound that must have come from Snape - a low chuckle with no humour in it.

"An epitaph written for a Muggle emperor on the grave of the last heir to one of Britain's oldest pureblood families. How perfectly adequate."

Harry's lips move silently as he tries to work out the meaning of the words. "Not for long, but... wholly?"

Snape nods. "Miss Parkinson insisted on putting this on the headstone, just as she chose a mixture of the Catholic funeral mass and the burial rite out of the Book of Common Prayer for the service. Neither here nor there - she really knew him better than anyone else did."

Harry grits his teeth. _Don't go there, Harry. Not now. There will be time later to resent Pansy for being allowed to mourn him._ "I guess you'd have chosen something else?" Harry is surprised himself by the steadiness of his voice. He never was very good at hiding his true feelings before; not until the end of the war.

"Yes, though it was Muggle in origin as well. Given the circumstances of Mr Malfoy's death, I suggested king Richard III's device _Loyaulte me lie_, but Miss Parkinson swore that Draco's spirit would rise from the grave to haunt us both for the rest of our lives if we dared to lay him to rest under such a Hufflepuff motto."

Harry has heard nothing but the beginning of that sentence. Slowly, as if it meant a great effort, he turns his head to look at Snape.

"Are you saying that you know how he died?"

Snape returns his gaze with a carefully neutral expression. "I'm sure you read the papers, Potter? There was an official declaration by the Ministry, after all."

"You know perfectly well that they're lying." Harry's voice is still quiet, but there's a hint of barely controlled anger to it now. "They said that he was killed in self-defence by an Auror while he attempted to break his father out of the holding cell at the Ministry and that Lucius committed suicide after hearing about it. This is ridiculously impossible in more ways than I could begin to count, and I want to know what really happened. So if you know something, anything, please tell me."

Snape seems slightly taken aback by the fact that Harry is pleading with him, but he shakes his head nevertheless. "There is nothing I can tell you, Potter."

He sounds almost sincere when he adds, after a moment: "I'm sorry."

Harry looks away. His gaze lingers on the headstone once more when he replies softly, almost to himself:

"So am I."

* * *

  
After a war, those who survived are usually too busy picking up the pieces to think much about the things they went through. That part comes later, once the dust has settled.

At least, Harry thinks as he wanders aimlessly through the bustling crowds in Diagon Alley, this is true for the Order and its allies. Now that the dead have been buried, everyone seems hell-bent to make all visible signs of the war disappear as quickly as possible, as if they could eradicate everything that happened by doing so. It's not going to work, but he supposes it will take some time before people realize it.

There is very little left to pick up for the supporters of Voldemort. All the prominent Death Eaters are dead - either killed during the fights or executed by the Ministry; their property is confiscated, their remaining families in exile. The lower ranks are filling the cells in Azkaban, guarded once again by the Dementors who have returned to their posts after Voldemort's fall as if nothing had happened. There are rumours that Headmistress McGonagall got into a screaming match with Minister Scrimgeour about it, but the Minister insisted the Dementors were no threat anymore and that they were needed to make Azkaban secure again.

Harry doesn't know what all those who belonged to neither side are doing now - the purebloods who wouldn't follow Voldemort in the first place, or abandoned him when Draco Malfoy left his father's side and claimed that the Dark Lord had betrayed wizarding tradition just as much as the Order and their Muggle-loving supporters. He has no idea what will happen to those who chose the "third way", now that the one they were following is buried in a little graveyard in Wiltshire, hated and despised beyond the grave by both the light and the dark sides.

Harry's musings are cut short when someone bumps into him - someone who was obviously in a hurry to get around the corner of Knockturn Alley. A woman, wrapped in a dark blue cloak against the chill of the clear spring evening, laden with shopping bags that are now spilling their contents onto the pavement.

"Can't you watch where you're going?" she snaps as Harry crouches to help her shove her belongings back into the bags. He stops short at the familiar sound of her voice and tries to see her face which is half-hidden under the hood of her cloak. "Pansy Parkinson?"

She pulls back her hood and sneers at him. "Why, if it isn't the famous Harry Potter. I'd ask for your autograph, but I've got my hands full thanks to your clumsiness."

Harry bites back the reply that she clearly ran into him and not the other way round. "Well, I'm sorry. Here, let me help you..."

She actually slaps his hand away when he reaches for the many little boxes that have fallen out of a bag with the label _Madame Medea's Herbarium_. "Just do me a favour and leave me alone, Potter. I'm not in need of a hero at the moment."

"You seem more in need of a sherpa right now," Harry answers dryly, pointing at the scattered boxes of ginger root, raspberry leaves and St John's wort. She looks surprised for a second; then the left corner of her mouth quirks up in a strange sort of half-smile. "Not bad, Potter. Obviously, doing blokes was not the only thing you learned from Draco."

The half-smile turns into a smirk at Harry's stunned expression. "You really thought I didn't know? He never managed to keep anything secret from me since we were both three."

For a moment, Harry is torn between the urge to wipe the smug expression off her face with the nastiest hex he knows and a strange feeling of relief to finally hear Draco's name spoken again. Then he remembers Snape's words about Pansy knowing Draco better than anyone else, and the burst of hateful anger subsides. Here's someone who's grieving for him, too - even if she's careful not to show any sign of it.

Meanwhile, Pansy has stuffed everything back into her bags and straightens up again. "Cat got your tongue, Potter? I'd say I'd love to continue chatting with you, but I'm afraid you wouldn't believe it, and you would be right."

Before she can turn away, however, Harry's voice stops her. "Pansy, wait."

She raises an eyebrow in a way that reminds Harry so much of Draco that his breath catches in his throat. When he doesn't elaborate, she taps her foot impatiently. "Well, what is it? I haven't got all day, Potter, so spit it out or get lost."

"Can I buy you a drink?" Harry is surprised himself by his words, but he couldn't think of anything else to say. Pansy frowns; her eyes are narrow with suspicion. "You expect me to have a drink with _you_, Potter? Are you out of your mind?"

"Not yet." Harry's voice is barely above a whisper. "But I think I soon will be if I can't talk about him with someone."

It's certainly not wise to drop his guard like this, but Harry is sick of hiding behind the mask he's been wearing for far too long. Pansy may not like him, she might even hate him with a passion, but at least she'll understand.

She does. "That desperate?" is all she says before pointing to a small café across the street. "You can buy me a cup of tea, I'm cold. And just so we understand each other, Potter, this is a one-time offer. I have no intention to become your personal confessor just because you won't admit to anyone else that you were sleeping with the enemy."

  
* * *

  
The silence isn't exactly uncomfortable, but Harry feels jumpy nevertheless; now that Pansy is sitting here with him, he has no idea how he should get her to talk about the things he desperately needs to hear. He watches her stir an indecent amount of sugar into her peppermint tea; she seems absolutely relaxed and in control of everything. It's a very Slytherin trait - he has seen it many times with different members of Slytherin house. It's also a trait Draco never managed to achieve during their school days; at least, not in the presence of one Harry James Potter. The cool, aloof, reserved Draco Malfoy the wizarding world remembers now came later, after the war had started.

Pansy has changed since school, too. She no longer deserves the nickname 'pug-face', though she's still snub-nosed and not exactly pretty: her face is too round, her brown eyes too big, her little mouth too full for that. The only truly beautiful thing about her is her dark hair which flows down to her shoulders in gentle waves and curls around her forehead. She's short, her movements more energetic than graceful; her hands are small and look as soft and smooth as a baby's - hands that never seem to have lifted anything heavier than a wand in her life. _It might explain her problems with the shopping bags_, Harry can't help thinking.

Harry gestures towards the bags, glad to have thought of something - anything - to start a conversation with. "Why didn't you levitate those instead of carrying them?"

Pansy throws him a look over her teacup that would have made Snape proud. "Because I have potion ingredients in here, if you absolutely have to know, Potter. I'd think that even someone as hopeless at potions as you would know that one shouldn't use magic on the ingredients before brewing a potion."

He shrugs; secretly, he's almost enjoying the constant flow of insults. It's a refreshing change from all the hero-worshipping he has had to face lately. "I'm aware of that. Still, I'm surprised that you'd carry them yourself. How about a house-elf?"

Her face darkens. "As if anyone still dared to show up with a house-elf in public! Your little friend Granger" - she spits out the name as if it were an obscenity - "has made sure of that with her wonderful campaign, hasn't she? Oh, of course, Hogwarts still uses them, as does the Ministry, but we all know it's a sure sign of a Dark Wizard to openly exploit the poor little creatures, don't we?" Her voice is dripping with venom now.

Harry shrugs again, resigned to obviously always saying the wrong thing. "But you still have house-elves, don't you? I thought all the pureblood families had them."

"Of course we do." The calm mask is back. "Most of them have served our family for generations. They'd probably throw themselves from the rooftop if we ever threatened to set them free." She takes a sip from her tea. "Did you really lure me in here to talk about house-elves, though?"

"No." Harry takes a deep breath and tries to swallow the lump in his throat. _Nothing for it now_. "I want to know what happened to Draco. You know how he really died, don't you?"

Pansy puts the cup back on the saucer, but keeps her eyes fixed on it. "Yes." Her voice is devoid of any emotion; it's clear she doesn't want to say more.

"Then please tell me."

She's looking at him now; there's a strange expression on her face that might even be pity. "No, Potter. Believe me, I'm doing you a favour by not telling you."

"Pansy -"

"I said no." She's still calm, but it's clear that she won't give in. "You'd never understand. Not that it matters to me - frankly, I wouldn't give a shit if you knew and it drove you crazy, but it would have mattered to him."

Harry suddenly finds it hard to breathe. "You think so?"

It's Pansy's turn to shrug now. "He was obsessed with you from the day he met you. Throughout our school years it was nothing but 'Potter this, Potter that'..."

"Yes, but - he hated me then! Or are you saying that he didn't?"

"Of course he did. Hate is a force of attraction, after all, though it certainly took him a while to figure it out. And then, after school, when he finally had you where he really wanted you, it got even worse. There were times when I threatened to slap him if he mentioned you just one more time."

Harry feels he is starting to blush. "He talked about me?"

"All the time. And in great detail." Pansy smiles fondly. "Oh, the boy was nothing if not an exhibitionist. He never had an ounce of self-control when he was younger - he learned it the hard way later when he found himself in the Dark Lord's inner circle. But it all went down the drain when it came to you."

She gives him a smirk that is downright dirty. "So, Potter, I hope it doesn't bother you too much that I've heard things about you that most people would only dare to _think_ in the dark. No, wait - actually, I hope it _does_ bother you, and I can see that it does."

"What makes you so sure that he didn't tell me some things about you as well?" It's petty and childish, but it's the only comeback Harry can think of.

Pansy waves her hand dismissively. "Oh, I'm certain he did. I take it you were adequately shocked?"

Harry shrugs awkwardly. "Well, I... I was a bit surprised. I had thought before that Draco didn't like women - usually, I mean."

"He didn't, Potter, just as you don't like men. Usually."

Harry looks down on his hands. "I just liked him."

"Well, I suppose he just liked me, then. The only difference is that I was first and foremost his friend; the rest was just an occasional benefit."

Harry looks up sharply. "Oh, that means it was different with me?"

"You never were his friend, Potter. You fell for him, and maybe you even thought that you were in love with him, I honestly don't care. But you never knew him well enough to be his friend - in fact, I don't believe you knew him at all."

Before Harry can answer, Pansy gets up and reaches for her cloak. "Thanks for the tea, Potter; it has been so nice to chat with you. I'd just ask that next time we meet, you do me a favour and run headfirst into the nearest wall instead of bumping into me again."

  
* * *

  
Harry keeps replaying the conversation with Pansy in his mind that night when he's leaning on the windowsill of his small, impersonal room in the Leaky Cauldron, staring out over the dimly lit rooftops of Diagon Alley.

He's rented this room right after returning from the last battle when he found he just couldn't set foot into the Order's headquarters at Grimmauld Place any more. He's spent most of the war either there or at the Ministry where they gave him Shacklebolt's former office although he technically isn't an Auror. When it was all over, though, there was no way in hell he'd ever have gone back to any place that was his only because the former owner had died, be it Sirius or Kingsley Shacklebolt.

So he packed the few things he didn't want to leave behind and moved into the Leaky Cauldron where he plans to stay until he has decided what he's going to do with the rest of his life - supposed that he will ever muster up the energy to start thinking about it.

Tonight, though, is one of those nights when the urge to go down to the bar and drown his ability to think in a bottle or three of firewhisky becomes almost overwhelming - almost, that is, for someone who hasn't seen Ron go down that very path ever since Arthur and Ginny were killed. Whenever Harry finds himself on the brink of giving in to the temptation, he can't help picturing Ron at their last meeting, red-faced, glassy-eyed and unsteady on his feet. He wouldn't have needed Molly's resigned letters to tell him that Ron hadn't been sober for a single day since his father's and sister's deaths; it was obvious enough. Harry is still clinging to the last remains of his own dignity, though he is not sure how long it will take until he can't afford that particular luxury any more.

For the moment, something to distract him from going over Pansy's words again and again seems most important. It's still rather early, and although he's tired from wandering the streets all day, he doubts he'll be able to sleep if he just goes to bed now. So he turns away from the window; his eyes scan the little room, desperately searching for anything to do.

At long last, he digs out a quill and a bit of parchment and starts writing a letter to Neville. It doesn't bother him overmuch that he's hardly kept in touch with any of his friends lately, but he can't help feeling a little guilty when he realizes that it's been almost two weeks since Neville has heard from him. After all, there can't be much in the quarantine ward at St Mungo's to take Neville's thoughts away from the fact that he's dying - slowly decaying from the inside due to a Dark curse the healers are unable to counteract.

So Harry writes to fill both his and Neville's empty hours, scribbling down everything that comes to his mind - most of it is hardly cheerful, but he knows Neville will appreciate the news nevertheless. Harry tells him about the last Death Eater trials, about McGonagall's efforts to re-open Hogwarts come September, about Scrimgeour's attempts to re-establish a functioning Ministry of Magic, about Ron's alcohol problems and Hermione's retreat into the Muggle world. He even mentions meeting Pansy, though he leaves out the main topic of their conversation. Instead, he tries to remember the herbs in Pansy's shopping bag and asks Neville if he has any idea what she might want with them - hoping that a question concerning his beloved herbology will keep Neville occupied for a while.

It is past midnight when Harry finishes the letter, and he's so tired he can hardly keep his eyes open by then. Hedwig is fluttering on her perch expectantly; Harry ties the thick roll of parchment to her leg and sends her on her way to St Mungo's. Then, without even bothering to undress, he falls onto the bed and is asleep before his head hits the pillow.

  
* * *

  
_The plan to attack Voldemort's headquarters was in its final stage; they were on the brink of the battle that would decide the outcome of the war. Harry had been trying to avoid the thought all evening; of course, he could not tell Draco, but now it was time to leave, and he knew for sure he would not be able to return before the plan was set in motion._

_Which meant it was possible he would never see Draco again. If he was honest with himself, he was even certain that he wouldn't._

_To his own astonishment, Harry realized that he wasn't afraid of dying - in a way, he'd been resigned to the fact that defeating Voldemort would cost him his own life ever since Dumbledore had told him about the prophecy back in his fifth year at Hogwarts. Yet, he just couldn't leave Draco like that - without a word, with no farewell, no kind of warning what the immediate future might hold in store._

_If Draco had noticed that something was amiss, he didn't say anything. They kissed one last time, and Harry was about to step into the fireplace when he turned back again, desperately searching for the right words._

_"Draco, I – I'm afraid it might be some time before we see each other again..."_

_Draco's pale face remained impassive, he just kept looking at Harry with those cool grey eyes and answered quietly, "I'll be awaiting you, Harry - for as long as it takes."_

_A second later, Harry was surrounded by a wall of green flames which separated him from Draco. Panicking, he tried to reach out towards the familiar slender figure that had been in front of him a heartbeat ago, but there was nothing left to hold on to, and he was alone –_

  
Harry wakes drenched in cold sweat. His head is pounding, and he feels acid burning in his throat. He is used to nightmares, has even trained himself to wake up when they get too bad, but this is different.

Groggy and disoriented, he gets up and stumbles into the bathroom because he's suddenly feeling violently ill. He hasn't eaten since yesterday morning, so there's nothing to throw up, but his stomach keeps heaving, and he's retching until he's so dizzy that little bright lights are dancing in front of his eyes and his heart seems ready to burst out of his chest.

No nightmare has ever done this to him - not since he learned to block the dreams Voldemort was sending him years ago. Afterwards, during the war, there were just ordinary nightmares, caused by the horrors he witnessed on a daily basis, but none of them left him in the state he is now. They were only dreams, after all.

The scene he's just woken up from is not.

It's a memory.

  
* * *

  
When Tom, the seemingly immortal innkeeper, knocks on Harry's door later that morning to ask what he wants for breakfast, Harry sends him away without even opening the door. The mere thought of food is turning his stomach.

He's crawled back into his bed and can't bring himself to get up again; in fact, he feels like pulling the blankets over his head. He'd probably do it if it would help shut out the images he's seeing.

Ever since the end of the war, he's been on the run from these memories. The one moment of clarity at Draco's funeral is still fresh in his mind, the feeling that the ground had opened up beneath his feet to swallow him. Since then, he has been struggling to keep away from the abyss as far as possible.

_"I'll be awaiting you, Harry - for as long as it takes."_

He does not want to dwell on that sentence, the last words he ever heard Draco speak. He has no wish to ponder whether the odd expression in Draco's eyes meant that he understood what Harry had been trying to say. That these few words might have been the farewell Harry could not bring himself to utter.

_"I'll be awaiting you, Harry."_

Harry feels his defences crumble. He hasn't cried once during the war, and he isn't crying now, but his whole body is shaking. It's neither pain nor grief, it's something else, a silent kind of horror he has no name for. He can't think, he can't move, he can hardly even breathe - the only thing that's on his mind is the desperate wish for it to end because he's unable to stand it any longer.

_"I'll be awaiting you."_

Is he? When Draco said these words, could he possibly have imagined the outcome that he would die and Harry would live - had he wanted his words to reach out from the grave towards Harry to show him the way?

Suddenly, there's another image in Harry's head, and it's not a memory this time: he sees himself, all in black and white like an old Muggle photograph, back in the cemetery in Wiltshire, half-sitting beside Draco's grave, his head and upper body resting on the granite slab which covers it. The only dash of colour in the picture is the bright red of the blood that's pooling under his wrists and slowly sinking into the rough surface of the stone. His eyes are closed, and there's an expression of peace on his face he didn't think himself capable of any longer...

The time for heroes is past; he has played his part, and now he's not needed any more. There is no prophecy left to fulfil, no villain to be defeated, no world to save. His living or dying has no consequences for anyone's future but his own. For the first time, Harry begins to grasp the full implications of the fact that the war is over.

_"I'll be awaiting you, Harry..."_

As the image fades, Harry realizes he can breathe again. His heartbeat slows down, and after a while, he even feels able to move a little bit. He sits up and pulls the blanket around his shoulders; his hands are still shaking, but his head is clearer than it has been in a long time.

_"...for as long as it takes."_

He's not ready to go there; not yet, at least. But the certainty that there is a way out if things should become unbearable is strangely liberating. Harry tries to etch the image of his blood on Draco's grave into his brain - he finds himself intrigued by the idea that he might let his death speak out loud what he was never allowed to admit while he was alive.

And who knows, perhaps Draco _will_ be awaiting him then.

Or, if there really is nothing but oblivion, at least he'll have that.

  
* * *

  
Early in the afternoon, Hedwig comes back with Neville's answer. Harry is still sitting on his bed when she arrives, but he's feeling better, and he's almost glad of the distraction. He unrolls the parchment which is written by an unfamiliar hand - this is no surprise as Neville has no use of his own hands any more. Yet, his mind doesn't seem to be affected by the curse that's causing his body to waste away; in some ways, the tone of Neville's letter is lighter than that of the one Harry has sent him.

Harry quickly scans the text without paying too much attention to what he's reading until Pansy's name catches his eye.

_"...and from the ingredients you listed, I think I've been able to work out what Miss Pug-face (sorry, you said she's not so pug-faced anymore) 'is up to', as you put it, Harry. It's just a suspicion, but I'm fairly certain that... "_

  
* * *

  
When the innkeeper is knocking on Harry's door again a few hours later to ask what he'll want for dinner, he doesn't even receive an answer.

Inside the door, Harry is still staring at the words on the parchment.

* * *

**References:**  
_Non diu, sed totus_: Not for long, but wholly. (Inscription on the memorial of Emperor Joseph II (1780-1790) in Vienna.)  
_Loyaulte me lie_: Loyalty binds me. (Motto of Richard, Duke of Gloucester, later King Richard III of England (1483-1485).)  
Hate is a force of attraction. (Terry Pratchett, Wyrd Sisters)


	3. Chapter 3

**From the Ashes  
Part Two**

by Fourth Rose

  
_Where can I go that you won't find me  
Why can't I find a place to hide  
Why do you want to chase me, haunt me  
Every step you're there beside me..._

_(Marsha Norman, The Secret Garden)_

  
* * *

  
The graveyard is quiet, shrouded in early morning mist; only the chirping of a few birds is breaking the silence. Harry is sitting on the granite slab that covers Draco's grave and is once again staring at the simple grey headstone. He hasn't been here since the funeral almost two months ago, but today, there was no way he could have avoided this place.

He doesn't know how long he's been sitting here, trying to think of a way out other than the one he sees looming before him. He hasn't found it yet, probably because there isn't one. The words on the headstone offer no solution, either.

"Damn you, Draco," he finally whispers; his voice seems eerily out of place among the silent graves. "How could you leave me to deal with this? I was half ready to quit for good, and now I'm supposed to play the hero again? Will it never _stop_? Why me, of all people?"

Once more, Harry finds himself picturing Draco as he last saw him, face impassive and eyes guarded, and he bows his head in defeat. He knows the answer, of course; knows it as clearly as if he'd heard Draco speak it aloud.

_Because there isn't anyone else. No one will ever know if you just walk away from this, and believe me, nobody will thank you if you don't. The choice is yours. What will it be, Gryffindor? _

No way out, then.

Resigned, Harry gets up and inhales deeply as he recognizes the familiar feeling of a heavy weight settling onto his shoulders. Has he really been stupid enough to believe that he would ever be able to get rid of it?

"I'm sorry, Draco," he says quietly before he turns to leave, "if you are really awaiting me, you'll probably have to wait a lot longer than we both anticipated."

  
* * *

  
The house-elf throws Harry a suspicious glance as she opens the door, though she curtsies with perfect politeness. "Sir?"

Harry tries to keep his face devoid of expression. "I'm Harry Potter; I'd like to speak to Miss Parkinson, please."

"Ketty is knowing Mr Potter, Sir. Please enter, the Master is awaiting you. If Sir will follow Ketty?"

Harry frowns at this, but enters nevertheless. The elf leads him up the main staircase and through a few corridors until she stops at a heavy oak door and curtsies again. "Master Parkinson is here in his study, Sir." Before Harry can say anything, she snaps her fingers and is gone with a loud crack.

Shrugging, Harry knocks and enters the study. Sure enough, there's no one in the room but William Parkinson, Pansy's father, a heavy-set man in his fifties with grey hair and piercing blue eyes. He rises from his chair when Harry enters, but doesn't offer him his hand.

"Mr Potter." The tone is cool and guarded; it's very obvious to Harry that he is not welcome. That, at least, doesn't come as a surprise.

"Mr Parkinson, I'm pleased to meet you. I'm here because I need to speak to your daughter."

Mr Parkinson's face remains expressionless. "Frankly, Mr Potter, I doubt that my daughter will wish to speak with you. I understand you have never been on the best of terms?"

Harry tries to channel as much of the aloofness he has seen Draco display on such occasions as possible. "That may once have been true, Mr Parkinson, but things change, especially in turbulent times like ours. If I may be frank, too, I don't think Pansy is in a condition to refuse my request."

He sees Mr Parkinson pale ever so slightly and has his answer.

  
* * *

  
Pansy's eyes dart between Harry and her father when she enters the study. "Why did you send for me, Dad? And what's _he_ doing here?"

"Mr Potter came here to speak to you, Pansy," Mr Parkinson explains curtly and raises a hand to cut off her protest before she can even say anything. "I'm asking you to hear him out. I'll be back in fifteen minutes."

Pansy stares after her father when he leaves the study. Only when the door has closed behind him, she turns to face Harry.

"He's _making_ me speak to you, Potter? He detests you almost as much as I do! What in blazes is going on here?"

"I need to talk to you." Harry tries to remain calm under her furious gaze.

"Didn't I make myself clear last time, Potter? I don't want to talk to you, and I've no idea why my father would ask me to!"

"Because," Harry answers with brutal honesty, "I as good as told him that I know you're pregnant."

Her dark eyes go wide; she backs away from him as if he'd lifted his hand to hit her.

"You unbelievable bastard." Her voice is low and strangely flat, as if there were just no way it could ever express the hatred that's written in her face.

Harry shrugs. "I wasn't sure if you had told your parents, but obviously, you have."

She seems to have recovered from the shock; now she's sneering at him once more. "Of course I have. Did you think I'd wait until they figured it out themselves after seeing me puke out my guts first thing in the morning for weeks?"

"Well, that should have stopped now thanks to the raspberry leaves and ginger roots."

Her eyes widen once more, but now she looks at him with an expression that almost – _almost_ – borders on respect.

"So _that's_ how you found out? How uncharacteristically resourceful, Potter."

Harry doesn't take the bait. "Your parents know, then – but do they know who…"

The way her posture stiffens tells him the answer before he has even finished the question. "You haven't told _anyone_?"

Pansy remains stubbornly silent.

He expects her to react badly to his next words, but he needs certainty. "This _is_ his child, isn't it?"

His cheek is stinging before he even realizes that she is about to slap him. "Of course it is!" she hisses, her eyes blazing with anger. "What kind of slut do you think I am?"

"I'm sorry," Harry says quietly, resisting the urge to cover the burning imprint of her fingers – _not as weak as I thought, after all_ – with his own hand. "I didn't mean to insult you, but I had to know…"

Pansy's hand has disappeared into her sleeve for a second; before Harry can react, she's aiming her wand at him. "There's nothing _you_ have to know, Potter," she snarls, "this is none of your business, and you should be thankful if I decide just to Obliviate you instead of hexing you to hell and back!"

Harry slowly shakes his head. "I doubt you would risk hexing me, Pansy; your family's position is precarious enough as it is. I'm here neither to harass nor to threaten you, but I'm going to _make_ this my business, whether you like it or not."

Trembling with fury, she takes a step towards him, her wand still pointing at his chest. "You self-righteous Gryffindor ar-"

"Pansy," Harry interrupts what is obviously going to become a string of profanities that will get them nowhere, "will you marry me?"

Suddenly, there's silence.

Then, a clatter: Pansy has dropped her wand. She doesn't make a move to retrieve it; she just stares at Harry as if he'd suddenly grown a second head.

After a while, she manages to get out a single word, a rather faint "_What_?"

Harry closes his eyes for a moment. This is it, then – the first step on a path that should never have been his in the first place.

When he looks at Pansy again, his face is calm.

"You heard me, Pansy. I'm asking you to marry me."

"You're out of your mind." Her voice is firm again.

"I don't think so. Call it a business offer, if you prefer; I believe this is the basic nature of marriage within pureblood circles."

She takes a step back and crosses her arms over her chest. "A marriage is a contract between two people who both hope to gain from the arrangement. I don't see what either of us could possibly gain from what you're proposing."

"Frankly, I think you can see very well what you would gain, Pansy – you and your child."

She pales; Harry knows he has hit a nerve. So he continues, "A child born out of wedlock, sired by an unknown father, would mean shame and disgrace for both you and your family. It would ruin your future and be destined to be nothing more than a stain on the family's reputation. On the other hand, openly admitting that it's Draco Malfoy's child you're bearing might be even worse given the current situation."

"You mean now that your precious side of the light was able to declare him not only a wannabe assassin and a traitor, but finally a proven Death Eater as well?" she sneers, but the venom is gone from her voice. "Yes, you can safely assume that a fatherless Parkinson bastard will still be better off in the wizarding world now than an heir to the blackened name of Malfoy."

"Things would be very different for a child whose last name was Potter, though."

She seems taken aback for a moment. "You'd want this child to be _yours_? What are you up to, Potter – what's in it for you in this deal?"

"I'd have expected you to understand, Pansy."

For the first time since she entered the room, Pansy is looking at him without anger or defiance. Her eyes seem to drill into his, examining him, questioning his reasons, his intentions, trying to _see_…

She remains silent for a long time before she says quietly, "I've underestimated you, Potter, I'll give you that. But this is neither the time nor the place for Gryffindor heroics. He is dead, and you're not going to get him back by trying to live his life in his stead."

"I know that," Harry answers, equally quiet, "and I'm not going to try. But there's something left of his life, other than just memories, and I'm asking you to let me be a part of it. I can make all the difference for this child's future, Pansy. I won't do it for your sake, just as you won't agree for mine, but for the sake of his child."

When there's no reaction from her, Harry continues, "I doubt you are going to turn me down, because you simply can't afford it – but I'm perfectly willing to beg if it makes you feel any better."

She shrugs. "No need, Potter. I recognize an offer I can't refuse when I hear it. Just tell me, have you actually thought about what you're doing here? About the consequences, the practical implications? Do you have any idea what it means to marry into an old pureblood family?"

Her eyes narrow in suspicion when she adds, "You're not seriously expecting me to share this half-Muggle kind of life you've been leading so far?"

Before Harry can answer, there's a short, sharp knock, and the door of the study opens: Mr Parkinson is back.

Pansy steps away from Harry and, picking up her wand in one swift movement, turns to face her father.

"Dad, you'll excuse me - you and Mr Potter have a few things to discuss, given the fact that he has just proposed to me and I have agreed to marry him."

  
* * *

  
Harry tries very hard not to fidget in his uncomfortable wooden chair when Mr Parkinson keeps staring at him from across his desk, which he seems to have placed between them as a kind of safety barrier. He doesn't look as apoplectic as Harry half expected him to, and Harry can't help wondering whether this is a good or a bad sign.

Well. You don't live to defeat a Dark Lord just to be intimidated by the unreadable mood of your prospective father-in-law afterwards.

Once more, Harry aims for that expression of haughty indifference Draco was so good at.

"Pardon me, Mr Parkinson, but sooner or later, you _will_ have to talk to me."

Mr Parkinson shakes his head ever so slightly. "What do you expect me to say, Mr Potter? Don't you think you at least owe me the courtesy of an explanation?"

Harry shrugs.

"There's very little to explain, I believe. We are both aware of your daughter's condition, and I'm not going to back out of my responsibility. I hope you did not expect any more detailed… _explanations_ from me?"

There. Nothing he said was actually a lie, even if it was bound to lead Pansy's father to the wrong conclusion, and hopefully, the self-assured arrogance of the last question would make him refrain from further enquiries – be it only to protect his own dignity. Not for the first time, Harry reckons that he really might have done quite well in Slytherin.

"I have no intention to dwell on what's happened and can't be changed, Mr Potter, but I think I have a right to know what your plans for my daughter's future might be. What are you going to do with your life, now that the war is over?"

"I haven't decided yet. I have been offered several positions, two among them at the Ministry, but I'm in no particular hurry to choose. It's not as if I had to work for the money, so I can afford to wait until an offer comes along that really suits me."

Mr Parkinson raises his eyebrows. "I wasn't aware you were so well off."

Harry smiles. "Don't tell me you thought that I was after Pansy's heritage?"

"No offence, Mr Potter, but the idea has crossed my mind."

"I'm willing to provide you with a full account of my financial situation if it will ease your mind, then."

"I'd appreciate that. Also, you probably know that although Pansy is my only living child, the main part of the Parkinson property will not go to her but to her late brother's son – Alexander was the eldest, after all, and his child is therefore heir to the family name and fortune."

Pansy had a brother? Try as he might, Harry can't remember ever having heard the name Alexander Parkinson before, and for a moment, he feels a surge of panic under Mr Parkinson's piercing gaze. If he admits his ignorance, it's undoubtedly going to raise questions about the exact nature of his relationship with Pansy – or rather, about the obvious non-existence of such a relationship since he doesn't even know the most basic facts about her background.

Harry takes a calming breath and decides to fish for a bit of information. "That seems reasonable – though, to be honest, Pansy hardly ever talked about her brother, so I didn't really consider it."

"I'm surprised she mentioned him to you at all. Alexander was murdered almost three years ago, right after our family had decided to remain neutral between the Dark Lord's and the Order's sides. We never found out whether it was Death Eaters or Order members who killed him. It doesn't make much of a difference anyway – at least, not to us who lost him."

He looks at Harry as if he were waiting for a reply, so Harry murmurs dutifully, "I'm very sorry," which is clearly not what Mr Parkinson was expecting him to say.

"No outraged defence of the Order's honour, Mr Potter? No assurance that the side of the light is incapable of lowering themselves to murder?"

Harry cringes at the bitterness in these words. Here's another man who has lost too much by doing what he believed was best – the Parkinsons were among the first pureblood families who supported Draco's dissident movement. "I have seen far too many atrocities committed by both sides during the war to ever believe either of them to be incapable of anything, Mr Parkinson." It is, Harry muses, probably the first truly honest sentence he has spoken in this whole conversation.

Mr Parkinson eyes him curiously. "Weary of fighting, Mr Potter?"

"To the bone." Harry realizes there's a rough edge to his voice and clears his throat before he continues. He's reciting now – a carefully formulated speech he has spent hours on the night before. "The last years have brought us nothing but death and destruction. I think it's time the wizarding world started to live again. There are still many open wounds to heal, many gaps to be bridged, and we've only just begun to struggle for a new order of things after the old one has fallen into chaos. I guess I don't need to tell you that there's much at stake right now – especially for families like yours."

Mr Parkinson's eyes narrow. "Is that meant to be a warning or a threat?"

"It's neither - take it as an offer instead. I don't want to steal your daughter away from you; I'm perfectly willing to consider myself part of her family once we're married, and therefore I'm going to act in said family's best interests. You may find that I won't be totally useless in the difficult times which are still ahead of us."

"I have no doubt about that." Pansy's father seems thoughtful; Harry knows that the support he's just offered him would be invaluable not only to the Parkinsons, but to all the pureblood families who have chosen the same alliances and are now regarded to be barely one step above the Death Eaters themselves by the winners of the war. It doesn't worry him overmuch what his own allies are going to say about it. He's not just the Boy Who Lived, but the Hero of the Second War as well – he'd probably get away with almost everything right now.

Finally, Mr Parkinson seems to have come to a decision. "I think I'll take you up on your word then, Mr Potter. Marry my daughter and stand with us when the need arises. I have my reservations, but I hope you will prove them unfounded in the future."

It's with a mixture of relief and apprehension that Harry rises and shakes the hand Pansy's father is finally offering him. He can't help thinking that in the best Gryffindor tradition, he has no idea what exactly he has just got himself into.

  
* * *

  
The following afternoon, Harry meets with Mr Parkinson's solicitor and hands him a meticulous list of all the possessions he inherited from his parents and his godfather. When he comes back into his room in the Leaky Cauldron, there's an owl waiting for him, carrying a thick roll of parchment: a letter from Pansy.

_Potter_, it says, _my mother has this strange idea of wanting to see the man her daughter is going to marry, and you will therefore receive an invitation tomorrow. Enclosed, I'm sending you a bit of information about me – if you really want to pull this off, you'd better have it memorized when you meet her. Don't bother to send me your innermost secrets in return – I know everything about you that's worth knowing and then some. PP_

With a sigh, Harry shakes his head and starts reading. It's pretty much what he expected: lineage, relations, a catalogue of friends, allies and business partners… hardly entertaining, but then, Harry hasn't survived seven years of Professor Binn's classes for nothing. Compared to learning about goblin rebellions, the Parkinson family history is still rather easy to memorize.

Things get a bit more interesting when he comes to the next part. It starts with what is obviously a copy of a birth certificate: _Pandora Maria Parkinson, daughter to William George Parkinson and Maria Carolina Parkinson, née Zabini, born on Mai 22nd, 1980…_

Harry pauses in surprise. _Pandora_? Sinister names must really have been quite the fashion among the purebloods back in the days before Voldemort's first downfall. And Pansy's mother is a Zabini? Harry checks the pedigree (consciously not thinking of the Black tapestry with all those names missing) and finds that Pansy is in fact a cousin of _Blaise Francesco Zabini, son to Giovanni Enrico Zabini and Claire Madeleine Zabini, née Dupré…_

Shrugging, Harry continues with Pansy's explanations. _Once you're done sniggering about my first name, Potter, let me tell you that it was Draco Malfoy who came up with that annoying flowery nickname – he used to call me Pansy since our first meeting, and after a while, I was stuck with it. Consequently, he never missed an opportunity to point out that my name was bound to the soil while his was written in the stars._

For a moment, Harry closes his eyes and tries to recall Professor Sinistra's voice from an astronomy lesson that seems to have taken place a lifetime ago: _the circumpolar constellation Draco, The Dragon – revolving around the North Star, visible all year…_ Ron was annoyed then, Hermione amused, while Harry remembers thinking that it seemed almost too perfect for their arch-enemy to be named after a constellation that was always there and right in the centre so that you couldn't ever hope to overlook it.

Sighing once more, he turns back the letter. It looks like it's going to be a long evening.

  
* * *

It's barely past six o'clock in the morning when there's a knock on Harry's door. He has been up with Pansy's monstrosity of a letter until well past midnight, and therefore isn't in the brightest mood when he opens the door just wide enough to peep out at whoever has had the nerve to disturb him at this ungodly hour.

There's a house-elf standing on the threshold. It is wearing what looks like a clean white towel with a navy blue pattern that is wrapped around the small creature like a toga, and it carries a huge parcel in its – thankfully un-bandaged – hands. When it sees Harry, the elf bows stiffly.

"Mr Potter, Sir. Mim was sent to you by Miss Parkinson."

Harry, suddenly conscious of the fact that he is wearing nothing but rather frayed pyjama bottoms, quickly reaches for his bathrobe before he fully opens the door. The elf obviously mistakes this for a permission to enter; the door falls shut behind it with a bang.

Once inside, the elf looks at Harry expectantly. Harry points at the parcel in its hands.

"Well, erm - Mim, is this what Miss Parkinson is sending me?"

The elf hands Harry the huge package, but shakes its head. "This is just a robe which Miss Parkinson wants Master to wear when he's meeting Mrs Parkinson to make sure that Master is dressed according to the occasion. What Miss Parkinson mostly means to send is Mim."

This statement sinks in together with the realization what the elf has just called him.

"Hey, wait a moment – she's sending me a _house-elf_ like some kind of present?"

"Miss Parkinson has told Mim: Go to Harry Potter and serve him because he is your master now. That is what Miss Parkinson said, and it's what Mim is doing."

"Don't I get a say in this whole deal?" Harry is starting to get seriously irritated now.

The elf's bat-like ears suddenly seem to droop a little. "Master could send Mim back. It would be an insult to Miss Parkinson, though, and a great shame for Mim. He has never been sent away by any of his previous masters."

With a groan, Harry slumps onto the bed and rests his head in his hands. "So I basically _don't_ get a say because..."

_…because you're far too nice for your own good, Gryffindor golden boy_. How often has Draco told him so? And why did he have to be so bloody _right_?

When he looks up, the elf is regarding him with a hopeful expression. Harry sighs again.

"Let's get a few things straight first, Mim. You are never and under no circumstances going to call me 'Master', do you hear me?"

The elf's ears perk up a bit. "Yes, …Sir?" he ventures cautiously.

"I guess I'll have to live with that. Now what am I supposed to do with you?"

"Sir will need a servant! Sir is going to marry Miss Parkinson, and there is still so much to do! Also, if Mim may say so, Miss Parkinson wants Mim to help Sir getting used to the way things are done in a wizarding family…"

"I'm hardly a Muggle, for heaven's sake," Harry murmurs, though he has to admit that when it comes to the living style of the purebloods, he might as well be. Then he suddenly realizes what has been striking him as odd the whole time.

"No offence, Mim, but why are you speaking correctly? I don't think I've ever met a house-elf who did."

"Mim's former master trained him to, Sir. He said that house-elf talk was getting on his last nerve."

Harry frowns. "Your former master? I thought you – erm, belonged to Pansy?"

The elf lowers his head. "Mim has only come into Miss Parkinson's service when his master died a few months ago."

Harry opens his mouth to ask the obvious question – and realizes he already knows the answer.

It takes him a moment before he trusts his voice to remain steady. "Your previous master was Draco Malfoy."

"Yes, Sir." Tears are welling up in the large round eyes now. "Mim has served Master Draco from the day he was born until the night he was killed."

He blinks the tears away and looks at Harry once more. "Miss Parkinson said that Sir has many questions about Master Draco's death, but Mim is begging Sir not to ask them. It is the duty of every house-elf to keep his master's secrets, and Mim will not betray Master Draco's trust in him."

Harry nods dejectedly. He remembers all too well how hard it was for Dobby to talk about Lucius Malfoy's plans even when he wanted to – Dobby who managed to get rid of his owner only to be killed in the Order's service later.

"You must have known Dobby if you have served the Malfoy family."

Mim's face contorts into a strange grimace. "Yes, Sir, Mim knew Dobby."

"I take it you don't agree with the choices he made."

"What Dobby did was against the nature of house-elves, Sir. To a house-elf, there's no worse punishment than being set free. It was not proper for Dobby to desert his master, although it – it wasn't proper for Mr Malfoy to treat him the way he did, either." The last bit seems to have cost Mim some effort, but he isn't showing any inclination to punish himself for it – much to Harry's relief.

"It wasn't? I thought a house-elf's master could treat him as he pleased."

"No, Sir, not at all. Just as the elf is bound to serve his master, the master is bound to treat him well. There's a magical connection that has linked wizards and elves for many, many centuries to the benefit of both. It was with the first rise of He Who Must Not Be Named that a lot of his followers started to break the connection by treating their elves like vermin, and only then, some elves began to crave for freedom."

He gives Harry a pleading look. "Hopefully, Sir is not thinking of freeing Mim?"

"Don't worry, I won't. And since you're here, you might as well help me with this." Harry reaches for Pansy's letter and unrolls it. "I don't understand half of the stuff Miss Parkinson is rambling about. Why don't you try to explain it to me?"

The elf beams at him. "Mim is most glad to be of service, Sir."

  
* * *

  
The next weeks pass in a blur of activity. In between the lessons Mim is giving him about pureblood lifestyle in general and the Parkinson family in particular, Harry meets with lawyers and solicitors, signs contracts, strikes bargains and makes arrangements concerning his future with Pansy and her child. He is presented to Pansy's mother, who rather reminds him of a black-haired version of Molly Weasley with a posh accent and bombards him with questions he is mostly able to answer to her satisfaction thanks to the extensive preparation. The engagement is officially declared, a date for the wedding is fixed (it's going to be the day before Harry's birthday), and Mr and Mrs Parkinson ceremoniously allow Harry to call them Father and Mother since he'll soon be a member of the family. Harry isn't sure how he feels about it, so he avoids addressing them whenever he can.

After putting it off for as long as possible, Harry writes to Ron and Hermione to inform them about the wedding even if he doesn't invite them, assuming that they wouldn't come to see him marry Pansy Parkinson anyway. Hermione writes back from her parents' house and almost manages to mask her astonishment about the news when she sends him her best wishes that sound as if she were actually sincere. Ron doesn't answer at all, but Harry receives a stilted letter from Molly in which she's congratulating him although it's obvious how hurt she is by the fact that he is getting married only a few months after Ginny's death. Harry reckons that she will never forgive him once she realizes that Pansy's child, due at the end of the year, was conceived almost at the same time that Ginny was killed. He wonders only fleetingly why he can't bring himself to care.

In all these weeks of preparation, he never sees Pansy alone, which he is thankful for because he has no idea what they could possibly talk about. All the practical matters are being taken care of; how Pansy and he are actually going to manage living together is a question Harry doesn't have an answer to. He doesn't want to think about it, either – if he's honest with himself, Harry has to admit that at the moment, he doesn't want to think about what he's doing at all.

  
* * *

  
"Out late, Potter? Well, it _is_ your stag night, after all."

Harry – who was just about to close the door behind him – startles violently as the words come out of the darkness in his room. Immediately, reflexes trained in years of fighting kick in; before he even realizes what he's doing, his wand is out – and just as quickly is flung aside by a quick "_Expelliarmus_!" from the intruder.

Only then, the fact that he knows the voice which has just spoken starts to register. "What the bloody hell, Pansy! Are you trying to give me a heart attack?"

A soft chuckle and then, "_Lumos_."

Pansy is sitting on the only chair in the room, ankles crossed in a perfectly lady-like fashion, a smirk on her face. "If I wanted to kill you, I'd wait another twenty-four hours so I could inherit your fortune. Though it would have been really easy right now – you're not being very careful, Potter. You've still got enemies, you know."

"Did you come here to tell me that? Because it's hardly news to me," Harry snaps, grumpily fishing his wand out of a corner and lighting the candles on the table.

"Then start acting accordingly. Black doesn't go well with my complexion."

Harry sits down on the bed, facing her. "As touching as your concern is, I doubt that it's the reason you're here. How did you even get through the wards I set up?"

"Mim let me in. You obviously forgot to tell him not to." Pansy smirks again when Harry's face darkens. "Still not used to having him around, are you?"

"I never get to see him until I call for him, although I know he's close by the whole time. It's creepy."

"On the contrary; it's proper. House-elves are not supposed to be seen unless they are called."

Harry sighs. "That's really fascinating. Pansy, it's almost eleven in the evening, I'm tired, and I suppose it's going to be a long day tomorrow. Could you perhaps tell me why you're here and then leave?"

"You still haven't told me where you've been. I have a right to ask now, haven't I?"

Harry forces a laugh; it sounds hollow even in his own ears. "I can't imagine why you'd care. But if you absolutely have to know, I've been at the cemetery."

"Isn't it a bit late to ask him for advice?" The smirk is gone; her expression is suddenly serious.

Harry shrugs. "He hasn't been very forthcoming anyway."

The left corner of Pansy's mouth quirks up for a second. "He's probably far too busy howling with laughter about the idea of the two of us marrying."

Almost unwillingly, Harry smiles too. "Yes, he would be, I guess."

"I'm here because there are a few things we still have to discuss before tomorrow, Potter." Pansy is suddenly all business. "But before we get started, could you open the window? I'm suffocating in here."

She is right; the day has been warm and sunny, and the air in the little room is stifling. Deciding not to ask why she didn't open the window herself while she was waiting for him, Harry gets up to walk over to the other side of the room – but before he can take a single step, her voice stops him.

"Stay right where you are!" Her tone is sharp. "Have you still not grasped the idea that you're a wizard and not a Muggle? It's a first-year spell, for pity's sake!"

At this, Harry's temper finally flares. "Heavens, can't you give me a break? _Alohomora_!"

He has overdone the charm; the window bursts open with such force that the glass cracks in several places. Fuming, Harry casts "_Reparo_" for good measure before slumping back onto the bed.

"There you are, Mylady. Happy now?"

Instead of taking the bait, Pansy just sighs and shakes her head.

"Potter, this is never going to work."


	4. Chapter 4

**From the Ashes  
Part Three**

by Fourth Rose

  
_Yet do I fear thy nature;  
It is too full o' the milk of human kindness  
To catch the nearest way; thou wouldst be great;  
Art not without ambition; but without  
The illness should attend it. What thou wouldst highly,  
That wouldst thou holily; wouldst not play false,  
And yet wouldst wrongly win._

_(William Shakespeare, Macbeth)_

  
* * *

  
_This is never going to work._

Harry can't keep his thoughts from wandering back to that statement whenever he starts thinking about the situation he has landed himself in. The wedding went by in a strange kind of blur; even his memory of it seems fuzzy, a strange sequence of brief scenes that appear to have happened to someone else, someone he doesn't even know very well. He remembers the small chapel filled with Parkinson relatives and former Slytherin students who eyed him warily; Pansy in a pale pink robe that successfully hid the small bulge underneath, her face set in an empty, polite smile; the ring that felt cold and alien against his skin and his own voice that sounded strange in his ears when he spoke the vows.

The row they'd had the night before the wedding made Harry expect more of the same kind once they were married, but things have been quiet ever since. It's obvious that Pansy does her best to keep up appearances when others are present – she calls him "Harry" or even "darling" in company, although the latter always sounds rather sarcastic to him; when they're alone, she instantly switches back to "Potter", but she's still surprisingly civil. It may have helped that Harry agreed without much fuss to all her wishes concerning their new home; Pansy's parents gave them their former summer house for a wedding present, and the fact that Harry willingly moved in there seems to have reassured Pansy that he won't ask her to give up the way of life she's used to.

Actually, Harry rather likes the house. It's situated in the middle of a forest and surrounded by a huge garden; no one else is living nearby, which suits him perfectly. He has dropped a few hints in what he hoped were the right places that he had no wish to see his marriage become a big topic with the newspapers, and they all seem to have complied. Obviously, no-one is willing to cross Voldemort's vanquisher when the dust of the final confrontation hasn't even fully settled yet. Harry is convinced that the break he's getting on that front won't last long, but at the moment, he tries not to think about it.

In fact, he does his best to avoid thinking at all. There is no safe direction for his thoughts to wander that doesn't lead to painful memories or the anticipation of future trouble, and right now, he doesn't want to face either. He feels as if he's drifting through the days without any clear indication of where his life is going, and he can't help finding it strangely peaceful. He's fully aware it's not going to last, but he's determined to enjoy the short breathing space life has granted him before something will undoubtedly force him to wade back into the thick of it.

  
* * *

  
Their house isn't that big, but Harry quickly realises that it's surprisingly easy for Pansy and him to avoid each other. They each have their own set of rooms – bedroom, bathroom, a study and something Pansy calls a dressing room – on opposing sides of a long corridor that leads to the living room-cum-library on one end and to the dining room on the other, and since Pansy doesn't spend much time in the living room, Harry hardly ever gets to see her other than during meals. They could, of course, eat separately as well, but there seems to be an unspoken agreement to share at least that small part of their daily lives. After all, Harry thinks, they'll have to do more than just that once the baby is born, since he very much wants Draco's child to grow up in surroundings which at least resemble something like a family. Therefore, he always complies when Mim comes to bid him to the dining room, and Pansy is usually there already. It seems like a sensible arrangement for both of them to get used to this strange new life they're now sharing.

The dining room surprised Harry when he first saw it; somehow, he had imagined a long table in an echoing hall with Pansy and himself seated at opposing ends and an army of liveried house-elves running to and fro with silver dishes between them. In fact, the dining table is just big enough for the two of them, although Mim has informed him that it can be magically expanded to seat as many as twenty people if guests are invited. The dining room itself is like the rest of the house: light, airy, and quite comfortable; the furniture is probably expensive, but far from being showy, and the dishes are plain white china. It's usually Ketty, Pansy's personal elf, who serves the food; the kitchen elves who do the cooking never make an appearance, and when Harry mentions this once, Pansy admonishes him not to go near the kitchen because the elves would consider it highly inappropriate.

Harry remembers Mim's explanation of the relationship between wizards and house-elves and wonders if Hermione would ever be able to understand this arrangement or if, vice versa, it would ever be possible to explain to the purebloods why it is such a hideous concept by Muggle ethics. He realises a second too late that he shouldn't have voiced his thoughts, though; it's not as if he and Pansy are ever going to see eye to eye on the matter, and there's really no point in arguing over it. However, he has already put his foot in his mouth now, and Pansy's face twists into a sneer.

"Well, it's a wizarding tradition that has worked fine for our society for centuries, but of course, one can't expect a Mudblood to ever understand."

Harry slowly lowers his knife and fork although he'd very much prefer to throw them on the table. His first impulse is to yell at Pansy, but he reins himself in just in time. "Pansy," he says instead, keeping his voice carefully neutral, "I agreed to share the kind of life that you and your kind are used to lead when I married you, but that doesn't mean I'll swallow every insult you decide to throw at everything I believe in. If you want this arrangement to work, you will _never_ use that word in my presence again, do you hear me?"

He fully expects a cutting reply, but to his surprise, Pansy seems more thoughtful than angry. She watches him with narrowed eyes for a moment and then gives him a thin, calculating smile.

"You know what, Potter? I'll make you a deal. I'll not only stop saying it to your face, but I promise that I'll never again use the word, or any other insulting term for Muggle-borns, at all. Sounds good to you?"

"Depends on what you want from me in return," Harry replies cautiously; there's no telling what Pansy might be up to with this.

"In return, you will read a few books from the library that I'll choose for you."

Harry frowns. "You want me to read some books? That's all? What do you get out of this?"

"Perhaps nothing, but I'll take my chances. Do you agree?"

Harry still has an uneasy feeling about this, but he doesn't see how a bit of reading could hurt him. It's not as if he's got much to do with his time at the moment, anyway.

"All right, I agree."

  
* * *

  
"Pansy, I think you need to look up the definition of the term 'a few'. It will take me _weeks_ to go through all of these!" Harry eyes the stack of books on the desk in his study with growing dismay; Pansy has just dropped the last huge tome she's been levitating on top of the pile and now gives him her sweetest smile.

"Potter, I know that intellectual tasks can be daunting for any Gryffindor who isn't Granger, but you're a hero; you'll manage."

Harry turns his head sideways to squint at the book titles. "_A Comprehensive History of Magical Britain_, by Adamantia Bones – _Traditions of Magical Education from the Late Middle Ages to the Twentieth Century_, by Cyprian Burke – _A Critical Analysis of the Statute of Secrecy_, by Justus Pilliwickle – _The Hogwarts Founders and Their Legacy_, by Phineas Nigellus Black – Pansy, I suffered through five years of History of Magic, I hardly need any more of that!"

Pansy makes a face. "I assure you, there's nothing in these books that you've heard about in Binns' class."

"But what... ohhh, wait a moment." Harry has noticed a small tome titled _An Essay on Wizarding Society_ by one Theophilus Nott, and finally, a few things add up. "What is this supposed to be, an attempt at brainwashing me?"

Pansy rolls her eyes. "Being exposed to another world view than your own hardly means being 'brainwashed', Potter, so spare me the dramatics. It's just that I'm sure you've never even heard about most of the things that are discussed in these books, and I think it might be helpful for you to know where the other side is coming from. If you're determined to stick to your comfortable black-and-white scheme of things, you should at least do it consciously and not due to a lack of information. I'm not asking you to accept everything you'll read at face value, just to think about it. Does that seem so unreasonable to you?"

Harry sighs. "Fine, I'll read them. Still, it's hardly fair that you'd force remedial wizarding tradition on me when you know next to nothing about Muggles in return!"

Pansy cocks an eyebrow. "What do Muggles have to do with it? I find it somewhat disturbing that after fourteen years as a wizard, you still consider Muggles to be your kind somehow. Besides, I'll have you know that I got an O in my Muggle Studies NEWT, so I feel reasonably well-informed about them."

This takes Harry by surprise. "You took Muggle Studies? Up to NEWT levels, even?"

"Almost everyone in Slytherin did, especially those from pureblood families." Pansy gives him a triumphant smirk. "Unlike most of you Gryffindors, _we_ never made the mistake of dismissing Muggles as harmless idiots."

  
* * *

  
During the weeks that follow, Harry begins to dread meal-times; Pansy seems hell-bent on making sure that he actually reads the books she heaped on his desk by constantly questioning him about their contents. He's more and more irritated about being treated like a schoolboy, and besides, there isn't much in the books that won't cause them to argue once he's brought it up. He isn't interested in fighting with Pansy – there's just no point, as far as he's concerned – but she's awfully persistent.

"Have you read Phineas Nigellus' essay on the Founders?"

Harry keeps his eyes on his plate. "I started reading it, but I haven't finished it yet."

"Did you like it so far?"

That makes him look up; her expression is serious, but Harry is well aware that she's mocking him. He takes a deep breath and answers as coolly as possible, "Not particularly, no."

"Really?" She cocks an eyebrow. "Why?"

He shrugs. "There are just too many things that seem wrong."

"How so?"

Harry sighs. _Here we go again_. "Look, I won't pretend that I've read the whole of _Hogwarts, A History_ because no-one but Hermione ever has..."

"No-one in Gryffindor, you mean," Pansy interrupts him with a smirk.

Harry pushes his plate away. "Whatever. Still, even I know enough about the early years of the school to realise that this 'essay' has absolutely nothing to do with the facts!"

"I repeat, Potter, how so? What kind of outrageous lies did you discover?"

"Well, it says that Salazar Slytherin was against Muggle-born students because they couldn't read, not because of their parentage, and that Godric Gryffindor opposed him just because he basically thought that they might be useful as cannon fodder!"

"And how does that contradict the information you were given at school?"

Harry rolls his eyes. "Oh, please. Binns told us that Slytherin built the Chamber of Secrets when he left the school to make sure that the monster within would go after those who he considered unworthy to study magic!"

Pansy makes a face. "He really said that? I never realised he was _that_ incompetent." She gives him a shrewd look. "Stop bristling, Potter, and listen. How could any sane person really believe that Slytherin put the Basilisk which you so valiantly defeated into the Chamber a thousand years ago? Do you really think a Basilisk could live for a millennium?"

Harry tries to remember what the chapter on Basilisks in _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_ said about their life expectancy. "Um, I think they live pretty long..."

Pansy doesn't even let him finish. "A few centuries, at most; everyone knows that the story about Herpo the Foul and his 900 year-old Basilisk is an old wives' tale, nothing more. Besides, from what I've heard during second year, the Basilisk could only get around the school through the water pipes, didn't it?"

"Yes, and?" Harry isn't likely to ever forget the sight of Hermione, wax doll-like on that bed in the Infirmary, with a page torn from a book in her hand that reads _Pipes_.

"And that didn't make you question Binns' story? Do you really think the original Hogwarts castle, built a thousand years ago, had _plumbing_?"

Harry opens his mouth to answer and realises that there's nothing he can say to that. Pansy smirks again. "Did you get to the part where the essay talks about Slytherin's real reason for building the Chamber?"

"It says he wanted a sort of – refuge for the students in case there was danger. But if that's really true, how did the Basilisk get in there? Someone wanted this place to be a death-trap, and if not Slytherin himself, then who?"

"Funny you should ask, Potter, I think you've met him right there."

Harry stares at her. "You want me to believe that Tom Riddle put the Basilisk into the Chamber?"

"And why not? It makes perfect sense. As far as I recall, the older history books I've read never mention the legend about a monster in the Chamber, just that Slytherin built it to protect his 'heirs', by which I suppose he meant the students of his House. I think that Riddle himself came up with the theory that only a direct descendant of Slytherin could open it, and that he deliberately started the rumours about a monster in the place because he was planning to put one there."

"So you think he just stumbled over the Chamber somehow and decided to use it for his own ends?"

"It seems quite likely to me, but then you're the one who has met him, you tell me."

Harry closes his eyes, remembering the dank, clammy coldness of the Chamber, the hiss of Parseltongue in his ears and the pale, beautiful boy before him, his face serene like an angel's and hell's fire burning in his dark eyes.

It takes him a while before he trusts his voice to be steady again. "I wouldn't put it past him. Can we change the topic, please?"

Pansy gives him a quizzical look. "We were talking about the Founders, weren't we? About your disbelief in the idea that Salazar Slytherin might have had other reasons for speaking up against Muggle-born students at Hogwarts than just the fact that he was evil?"

Harry sighs. "Pansy, if you absolutely need to lecture me on the topic, feel free. Just don't be surprised when I don't believe a word you're saying."

Pansy pushes herself up from her chair with some difficulty, an expression of disgust on her face. "It must be very reassuring to know one already has the perfect answer to every problem, no matter how much it flies in the face of evidence. Go back to your reading, Potter."

  
* * *

  
It's late afternoon when Harry decides that he's had enough of Phineas' essays in particular and Pansy's reading regime in general. Outside, the sun is still shining pleasantly warm for late September, and he decides to go for a walk before dinner. The sky is almost impossibly blue when he steps outside the house, and for the first time since what seems like ages, Harry suddenly feels the urge to hop on a broom and go flying. He hasn't flown for the fun of it ever since the war started; his Firebolt was destroyed in a skirmish years ago, and he has never bothered to replace it, just using any broom that was available instead whenever he needed one. Now, however, he can't help thinking that it might be nice to get one for himself again so that he can go flying sometimes.

He's just about to set out for the garden when he hears Pansy's voice from somewhere nearby. She sounds as if she were deep in conversation, but Harry can't make out a second voice.

"Look, there's your great-grandfather – I barely remember him, he died from the Dragon Pox when I was seven. Your Dad was quite upset, he'd always brought him chocolate when he came for a visit. And that's your uncle pulling my pigtails – he was supposed to stand still for the photo, but he never could stop teasing me. I kicked him in the shin, but only after the photo was taken, so Mum never noticed."

Harry holds his breath as he listens; there's the rustling of paper, and then Pansy talking again. "That's your grandmother with your Dad when they came to my parents' house for my First Magic celebration. She's beautiful, isn't she? Don't worry, I'm sure you'll be just as pretty when you're grown."

Harry has finally been able to pinpoint where the voice is coming from; he walks around the hedge that separates the garden from the flowerbeds right in front of the house, and sure enough, there's Pansy sitting on a little stone bench. She's balancing an open book on her knees; one of her hands is on her swollen belly, and with the other she's slowly turning the pages that are filled with moving photographs. Harry draws in a sharp breath as he realises what's going on, and Pansy's head whips around; she snaps the book shut and glares at him. "Are you spying on me, Potter?"

He's too dumbfounded to bristle. "I just heard you talking, and I – what are you doing?"

Pansy lowers her eyes to the book in her lap. "I found this when I cleaned out my desk after dinner; it's the photo album I got for my sixth birthday. I had totally forgotten about it, and I thought it might be nice to..." She sounds almost apologetic for a moment before she visibly pulls herself together; when she looks up at him again, her expression is defiant. "It's not as if I will be able to tell her all this once she's old enough to understand what I'm saying."

Harry slowly sits down next to her on the bench, not so much because he wants to but because his feet suddenly feel like lead. There are so many dangerous pitfalls in that simple sentence, so many impossible questions that he'll have to find answers to someday, and he just doesn't feel able to address any of them right now. Pansy eyes him with a mixture of apprehension and curiosity, and Harry decides to latch onto the one thing she said that seems like a moderately safe topic. "She?"

Pansy nods. "I'm sure of it."

Harry doesn't ask if this is just a hunch or something more substantial. For all he knows, there might be twenty different ways to magically ascertain an unborn baby's gender. "Have you decided on a name yet?"

She seems a bit surprised at that. "I thought you'd want to choose the name."

He shakes his head. "It's not my place."

Pansy gives him a look he can't read. For a while, they're both quiet, then she suddenly pushes the album at him. "Want to see them?"

Harry hesitates, remembering the flashes of blond he noticed in the pictures earlier. "Thank you, Pansy, but I don't – "

"Potter." Pansy's voice is softer than he's ever heard it before. "You've been walking around as if someone had hit you over the head for weeks, but you can't play dead forever." Without waiting for a reply, she places the album in his lap and flips the first page open.

"These were taken at the party for my sixth birthday. This is me with the Patil twins, there's Theo Nott and Blaise at the table, and Draco with Millicent Bulstrode and Susan Bones playing with Millicent's Kneazle."

Harry is deeply relieved that Draco at age six looks nothing like he did in later years. He's waving at the camera with the same enthusiasm as the other children in the photos; his glowing face shows no sign of the arch expression he usually wore during his time at school. Still, Harry doesn't feel ready to discuss Draco's childhood with Pansy; he quickly looks for something else to talk about.

"I didn't realise you were friends with the Patil twins."

Pansy shrugs. "I liked Padma well enough, and Parvati was an unavoidable part of the package. We went to school together, so of course, they both got invited."

"You went to school together? I thought pureblood children were taught at home."

Pansy seems taken aback. "Who in their right mind locks their child up at home the whole time? Our parents employed the teachers, but usually there were classes of ten to fifteen children who were taught at the house of someone who had enough room for them. During the first years, we usually had classes at the Bones' house, then it was Malfoy Manor for a while, and then the house of Blaise's mother after his stepfather had died. Of course, there were private lessons at home, too, but that was mostly music, languages, and suchlike."

She notices Harry's expression and cocks an eyebrow. "You had no idea about any of this, did you?"

Harry shrugs. "I never gave it much thought. I mean, I went to school in the Muggle world before Hogwarts, so I never heard about the kind of schooling that wizarding children get."

"Is it true that they wouldn't let you do any magic at home?"

Harry grimaces at the memory. "Yes, of course it's true. My... my guardians hated magic, and on the few occasions I still did magic, the Ministry came right after me."

Pansy makes a face. "I always thought the stories that the Ministry suppressed the Muggle-borns' magic were exaggerated, but it seems I was wrong."

"What do you mean, the Muggle-borns'? I thought underage magic was forbidden for everyone!"

She gives him an almost pitying look. "_Please_, Potter. Wizarding families train their children from the moment they first show magical ability. I got my first wand at six-and-a-half, and some others still earlier. The Ministry is freaking out at the idea of Muggles getting to see their children doing magic, but they'd have a hard time forcing wizarding parents to let their children's abilities go untrained!"

"I see," Harry replies with a touch of cynicism, "they're making sure from the very beginning that pureblood supremacy is upheld."

Pansy frowns. "Who said anything about purebloods? No wizarding family I know did it differently. Millicent is a half-blood, and she got her first wand when she was five. Of course, I don't know how those families who live among Muggles are going about it, but in the wizarding world, this is not a question of blood lines."

Harry stares at her. "So as long as you live like a wizard, your parentage doesn't matter? You expect me to believe that after hearing your Housemates spout racist slurs at the Muggle-borns for years?"

Pansy sighs. "I'd answer that, but I remember something about you refusing to believe me if I lectured you."

"Try me." Harry is honestly curious now how she'll try to wiggle herself out of the corner she's talked herself into.

"Very well. This is a topic that goes back to the founding of Hogwarts, so bear with me. As you know, the Founders had different ideas about how do deal with magical children born to Muggle parents. Salazar Slytherin was particularly opposed to accepting them at the school for two reasons: First, he considered them a potential danger to wizards because they would always be divided in their loyalties. The wizarding world has always existed mostly separated from the Muggles, and he thought that teaching Muggle-borns might make wizards vulnerable to betrayal. Second, wizarding children who came to the school already had been educated at home from the beginning of their lives; they knew all the basics about magic, and Slytherin considered it irresponsible to teach them together with Muggle-borns who, for the most part, didn't even know how to read and write."

Pansy is obviously warming to the subject; she seems to have trouble staying in her seat, and the gestures she uses to accentuate her speech are becoming more and more lively. She almost reminds Harry of Hermione in full lecture mode, and he feels a pang of something that feels a bit like nostalgia.

"The one who agreed with him there was Rowena Ravenclaw; she said that Muggle-borns would have to be taught separately from the wizarding children so they wouldn't slow them down, and she made very sure that no Muggle-born ever made it into her House during her time at the school. Godric Gryffindor had different ideas, since he never cared very much about intellectual matters. He claimed that untrained wizards in the Muggle world were a much greater danger than Muggle-borns at Hogwarts, and that the wizarding community was to small to survive on its own without a constant intake of fresh blood. Helga Hufflepuff agreed with him and suggested a House for these students, a House that, on the one hand, would do everything to help them catch up with the education they had missed during their early childhood and would, on the other hand, make sure that the students broke off all ties to their former lives so that they would never endanger the wizarding community by betraying it to Muggles. That's the reason Hufflepuff was looking for loyalty in her students above all else. For centuries, most Muggle-borns went to Hufflepuff and only some of them, those who were considered brave enough to become fighters, into Gryffindor. It usually took two or three generations before their children might be sorted into Slytherin and Ravenclaw, but by then, their bloodline wasn't held against them since their families had proven where their loyalties lay."

Harry has been trying in vain to get a word in for a while; he has to wave his hand in front of her face to finally get her attention. "Wait a moment. Are you saying that wizards were basically afraid of Muggles?"

She blinks, as if the question had caught her by surprise. "Of course they were, Potter! Muggles are neither stupid nor harmless; they're vicious, intelligent and dangerous, and they're outnumbering us by millions. That's why the Muggle world must be left alone, and it's also the reason why so many old wizarding families consider the kind of dalliances with all things Muggle that Dumbledore and Fudge were so fond of horribly dangerous. In the old days, Muggle-born magical children would usually be taken away from their parents for good when they began their education; today, we allow Muggle-borns to keep their attachment to the world they came from, we teach them to do magic without really making them understand what it means to be a part of this world. We're still uprooting them, but we don't give them a new home instead; they're torn in their loyalties between our world and theirs, and some even try to force the Muggle way of life onto us because they're never taught to respect wizarding tradition. _Those_ were the students who got called names at Hogwarts, Potter; not because of their blood, but because of their contempt for our world. Like I said, I had classmates who were half-bloods, and no-one thought twice about it because they had made clear from the beginning where they belonged."

Harry shakes his head. "I'm not buying it, Pansy. I remember the Black family tree with all the holes where they had burnt off the names of those who married Muggles..."

"Yes, of course there have always been a few families who put great emphasis on their idea of purity, and the Blacks are perhaps the most extreme example. But I remember Draco doing a lot of research on the earlier history of his family, and it turned out that up to the eighteenth century, there had been a number of marriages between Blacks and people with mixed background without any repercussions. It's a mathematical necessity, when you think about it: There just aren't enough of us around for us to survive without the Muggle-borns. Besides, the ideas of blood purity became a lot more radical since the nineteenth century. Two hundred years ago, Potter, you would have been considered a pureblood because both your parents had magical ability; half-bloods were people with one Muggle parent, nothing else. Some families were more reluctant to allow unions with them than others, but like I said, it stopped being a problem after one or two generations when they'd proven loyal to the wizarding world."

Harry holds up a hand to interrupt her again. "Pansy, where do you get all this from? I never took you for a particularly bookish person, but here you're sitting giving me history lectures!"

Pansy smiles tightly. "Most of this is what Draco found out once he became interested in the subject." She notices Harry's expression. "Don't tell me, you had no idea about this. Did you ever bother to ask him why he had decided to oppose the Dark Lord?"

Harry just shakes his head, feeling dumbfounded. "It was good enough for me that he did."

"Oh my." Pansy takes a deep breath. "It began when Draco learned that the Dark Lord was a half-blood, which pretty much turned his own view of everything that was going on upside down. He quickly realised that Voldemort –", Harry looks up in surprise, there still aren't many who will say this name, "– had no interest in restoring the old values of wizarding society, he was only out to gain power for himself. The he started reading up on his own family history, and it soon became clear that the level of purity that the Malfoys and the Blacks were claiming to have was nothing but an illusion. He told me that he'd come to the conclusion that wizarding society had survived because it had found a way to safely incorporate those with a Muggle background into their own world; it was impossible to keep them out completely. Of course, it was immensely dangerous to allow them to run rampant within our world, but it was suicidal to attack them the way the Dark Lord did. That's what Draco told those who wanted nothing to do either with the Death Eaters or with the Order and the Ministry, and most of them were easily convinced because it basically meant going back to how our world had been run for centuries."

Harry is still shaking his head. "But if all that is true, and you're aware of it, how could you ever call Hermione a Mudblood?"

"Newsflash, Potter: because I didn't like her! She came into a world that was new to her and immediately started judging it without ever trying to understand it. How would Muggles like it if wizards walked up to them and told them how to run their lives?"

When Harry doesn't answer, she adds, "You know, Potter, you've managed to surprise me."

Harry raises his eyebrows. "How so?"

"I didn't think you'd hear me out on this – I expected you to throw a fit and walk away halfway through."

He sighs and leans back, closing his eyes. "I said I would listen to you."

"You just won't believe me." She sounds strangely resigned, as if his opinion on the subject actually mattered to her.

"To be honest, Pansy, I'm not sure what to believe any more. Some of the things you said make sense to me, some don't, and I don't know what to make of it."

The corner of Pansy's mouth quirks up at this. "It's a beginning."

"Keep telling yourself that." Harry opens his eyes and blinks into the afternoon sun that's shining right into his face. "I think I'll go for a walk. It would be a shame to waste all this gorgeous weather on history lessons."

Pansy looks up at the clear blue sky. "It's a great day for flying."

He smiles at this. "Yes, I thought so too."

"Then why don't you? I'm a bit surprised I haven't seen you on a broom ever since we moved in here."

"That's because I don't _have_ a broom at the moment, but I think I'll get one again."

"Hm." Pansy looks at him strangely for a moment, as if she were debating with herself; then she whips out her wand. "_Accio_ Nimbus!"

A few moments later, a sleek racing broom smacks into her palm. "How about this one? I'm afraid it's a bit outdated, but it's still a fine broom."

Harry suddenly finds it difficult to breathe. "Is that..."

"Yes." Pansy doesn't meet his eyes when she hands him the broom. "Go ahead, Potter, it has been gathering dust for far too long."

He takes the handle and runs his fingers over the smooth, dark wood. The rational part of his brain is warning him that it will be impossible to keep the memories at bay while he holds such tangible evidence of the past in his hands, but at the same time, it feels incredibly good to touch something that was once part of _his_ life. He'd never have expected Pansy to entrust him with it, though; when he finally looks up to meet her eyes, he's no longer sure what to think. "Pansy, I... you're really comfortable with the idea of me flying his broom?"

"Not particularly, no." Pansy's doing her best to smirk, but it turns out a bit lopsided. "But I'm pretty sure he'd like it."

  
* * *

  
Since she says she no longer feels comfortable Apparating over long distances with the baby due in less than two months, Pansy has invited her parents for Halloween. Although no other guests are present, dinner that night is a rather formal affair, and Harry feels thoroughly uncomfortable in the stiff atmosphere. For the umpteenth time, he wishes that he'd had the kind of upbringing that would have prepared him for such occasions; he still feels like a bumbling fool whenever Pansy's parents are around. The meal goes well enough, though; Pansy and her mother do most of the talking, while Mr Parkinson and Harry just nod at the right moments whenever they're addressed by their respective spouses. Harry is sure that Mr Parkinson actually winked at him at one point when they both said "Yes, dear" almost in unison.

After dinner, Pansy drags her mother away to show her the collection of baby clothes she has bought, leaving Harry alone with her father. Mr Parkinson's jovial expression turns serious once the two women have left the room. "Do you have a moment, Harry? There's something I need to discuss with you."

"Of course. Let's go to my study, shall we?" Harry leads the way, careful not to wonder what Mr Parkinson might have to tell him because he doesn't expect that it could possibly be good. Still, by the time they're both seated in the big leather armchairs in front of the fireplace with glasses of firewhisky next to them, his heart is in his throat, and it costs him a lot of willpower not to fidget.

His father-in-law seems in no hurry to let Harry know what's on his mind, though. For a while, they're both sipping their drinks in silence; Harry stares into the fire, waiting for Mr Parkinson to start talking.

"Pansy looks well."

This is not at all what Harry expected, but he nods. "She's been feeling much better lately. She hasn't been sick for weeks, and she hasn't mentioned any back pains during the last days, either. You needn't worry about her."

Mr Parkinson smiles. "Oh, I suppose you worry enough for both of us, if you're anything like I was during my wife's first pregnancy. But that's not what I meant." He fixes Harry with a piercing gaze. "Harry, I've made no secret of the fact that I wasn't too happy about this marriage. I want my little girl to be happy after everything she's been through, and I doubted that she'd ever be happy with you. Be honest with me, you two would never have married if it hadn't been for the baby, would you?"

Harry holds his gaze without flinching. "Probably not."

The older man nods. "I appreciate your candour. Still, it seems you're getting along quite well."

Harry ponders the question for a moment. It's tempting to tell a pleasant lie, but something makes him hesitant to lie to a man who's just trying to look out for his daughter's happiness. "Better than we both expected, I suppose. She has yelled at me a couple of times, but at least she hasn't thrown anything at me yet."

Mr Parkinson's smile widens. "Then she must be quite fond of you. But what about you?"

Harry finds the question surprisingly easy to answer, even if he has never thought about it before. "This is where I belong, I know that much. I hope we'll work out the rest somehow."

"Fair enough." Now it's Mr Parkinson's turn to stare into the fire; for a while, there's no other sound than the crackling and hissing of the burning logs. Finally, he puts his glass aside and looks Harry straight in the face. "You remember what we talked about the day you proposed to Pansy?"

Harry unconsciously draws himself up. "Of course I do. I suppose this is about something I can help you with, then?"

"It's more than just that. One of the few contacts I still have at the Ministry has informed me that Scrimgeour is in the process of re-arranging the departments again. He claims it's to make the whole thing easier to administrate, but it's quite obvious that he's creating a number of new departments so that he can appoint people he trusts as heads there, while he's dividing up others to get some people who don't support him enthusiastically enough out of leading positions. At the rate he's going, there will soon be no ranking Ministry official who is anything but his personal lackey."

Harry frowns. "What of the former Order members who are still working at the Ministry?"

"There aren't that many to begin with; you know better than anyone else how heavy the Order's losses were during the last weeks of the war. Besides, almost all of them are in Law Enforcement, and Scrimgeour seems wise enough to leave the Aurors alone. However, that doesn't help us since the Order members are even less our friends than Scrimgeour is."

"Most of them should still be mine, though."

Mr Parkinson hesitates for a moment. "Are you still sure about that, Harry? You've basically been in hiding ever since the end of the war, so you don't know what has been going on in your absence. Besides, I'd imagine that your marriage with Pansy didn't exactly make you more popular with them." He holds up his hand to cut off Harry's protest. "I'm not saying that your achievements will ever be forgotten. You're the Order's undisputed hero of the Second War, but the Order has disbanded, and it is yet to be seen how much support you'll get from individual members once everything is going back to day-to-day business at the Ministry."

Harry sighs. "You're right, of course. That's one of the reasons I didn't accept any of their job offers."

"You said you'd had two offers for positions at the Ministry."

"Three by now, but I refused every time. They were all in Law Enforcement, and I saw no way how that could possibly work out. In spite of everything that happened during the war, I'm no qualified Auror, and squeezing me into the chain of command when I had no place there, just because I'm Harry Potter, would only mean trouble in the long run. You can't just snap your fingers and turn a soldier into a policeman, and I have no intention of becoming the department's mascot, either."

"You seem to have given this a lot of thought."

Harry shrugs. In fact, the first refusal was a purely visceral reaction. Only afterwards, he began searching for reasonable explanations why he couldn't possibly go back there. When he doesn't answer, Mr Parkinson keeps talking.

"Anyway, the reason I'm bringing this up is that I've been informed about another job opening, one that could be of tremendous importance in the future. Now that Hogwarts has been re-opened, Scrimgeour has created a Department of Magical Education, probably with the goal to strengthen Ministry control over the school. In Dumbledore's day, the headmaster did pretty much as he pleased, but I doubt the Minister wants to give McGonagall the same kind of leeway. The head of this department will have the possibility to interfere with school matters if there's an emergency of any kind. He will have some influence on the choosing of new teachers and a seat on the board of school governors."

Harry takes a deep breath. "So you want me to apply for that position."

"It's a chance our family, and those who stood with us during the war, can't afford to miss, Harry. No member of the neutral families has any chance at the Ministry, but Scrimgeour couldn't refuse your application."

"You _are_ aware that Scrimgeour trusts me no further than he can throw me?"

Mr Parkinson smirks. "I'm pretty sure everyone in Britain is aware of it. I'm not saying he'll be happy to have you there, but there's no way he'd survive the public outcry if he kept Harry Potter from a Ministry post he wanted – especially one that will give him such an influence on future generations."

Harry realises with a sinking feeling that everything his father-in-law tells him makes perfect sense. He'd love nothing more than to flat-out refuse, but he _did_ promise to give his support when it would be needed. Still, the very idea of holding a position at the Ministry makes his stomach clench.

"Father..." – it still costs him some effort to call Mr Parkinson that – "...you realise that you're asking me to do the very thing I'm least suited for. I may be many things, but I'm most definitely no politician."

Mr Parkinson smiles thinly. "From what I hear, you have shown remarkable talent at being whatever you needed to be at a given time. I'm not asking you to give me an answer right now if you don't want to, but remember that there's not much time to decide."

Harry looks away, doing his best to ignore the hint of disappointment in Mr Parkinson's tone. "I'll think about it."

  
* * *

  
"You told him you'd _think about it_?" Pansy seems torn between disbelief and outrage. "Dad offers you a position that could shift the political balance for generations to come, and all you say to him is that you'll think about it? Why not just spit in his face and tell him that you have absolutely no intention of keeping all those great promises you made?"

With an exasperated sigh, Harry closes the book he's been reading and turns around to face Pansy who's standing in the door of his study, trembling with rage. "I didn't say no, did I? Could you just – "

Pansy cuts him off. "Save your explanations, Potter. Do you even realise what this position could mean to us and all the other neutral pureblood families? What it could mean for the future of our whole society?"

"Aren't you over-dramatising things a bit? It's not as if anyone at the Ministry is ever going to have much influence at Hogwarts..."

"...unless, of course, that person was Harry Potter, poster boy for the side of the light!" Pansy takes a deep breath and visibly forces herself to calm down. "Potter, listen to me. You may not have been interested in anything that has been going on outside this house lately, but I have, and I've heard a lot of alarming news about the re-opening of Hogwarts."

Harry frowns. "What do you mean?"

Pansy eases herself in one of the armchairs next to the fireplace and arranges her voluminous maternity robes around her until she looks as if she were sitting in her own little velvet tent. "Less than half of the children who come from families with blood ties to confirmed Death Eaters were sent to Hogwarts in the first place, even if their parents had never been involved with the Dark Lord. Those who did have become school outcasts and have to endure all kinds of abuse from their classmates. Those from neutral families are hardly better off, and the teachers are either unwilling or unable to discipline the offenders with the exception of very serious cases. At the Sorting, less than fifteen percent of the new students went into Slytherin – a few said afterwards that the Hat had wanted to put them there and that they'd refused." She gives Harry a pointed look that indicates she knows about his own debate with the Hat all those years ago. "There were even parents who pulled their children out after they'd been Sorted into Slytherin. The balance between the Houses has been maintained for centuries, but now it's badly off, and if things don't change soon..." She doesn't finish, probably feeling that the message should be clear enough.

"I can't imagine that McGonagall would allow any House bias in a school she's running."

"Oh, _please_, Potter, you can do better than that. Granted, she's not as bad as Dumbledore, but she's still a Gryffindor to the bone, and that's not going to change just because she's Headmistress now."

Harry has paled at the mention of Dumbledore, but he doesn't take the bait, if Pansy even intended the remark as such. He remembers a couple of heated debates with Draco on the subject, debates that eventually led him to the disturbing realisation that Dumbledore really might have made it difficult for the students of Slytherin House to _not_ consider him their enemy. Harry usually avoids thinking about it – he wishes nothing more than to keep the image of his late mentor that he had when Dumbledore was alive, but he hasn't been totally successful in that regard. Looking back from where he's standing now, too many of Dumbledore's decisions seem questionable. Harry still doesn't doubt that the old man always did what he thought was best, but he's no longer sure that Dumbledore always had his priorities straight. He has never voiced these thoughts, and he fervently hopes that he'll never have to, but they force him to take Pansy's words seriously now.

"And you think that I'd be able to change that?"

"You know perfectly well that you would; in fact, you're probably the only one who can because they'd never accuse _you_ of sympathies for the dark side if you spoke up against anti-Slytherin bias or the ostracising of children with the wrong family ties." She puts a hand on her belly, and her expression becomes very serious. "Remember this, Harry," – Harry almost does a double-take; she's never called him by his given name when they were alone before – "this baby is Draco's daughter, a Malfoy and a Black, and neither of these families has produced more than a handful of children who weren't in Slytherin. My father's family is half-half between Slytherin and Ravenclaw, and every family member of my mother's who went to school in England was in Slytherin too. Unless you're planning to make her despise everything that her ancestors believed in, where do you think she'd get sorted if she went to Hogwarts?"

"What do you mean, _if she went_?"

Pansy squares her shoulders, clearly steeling herself. "I mean that I won't let her go to Hogwarts if things don't change there soon. I won't allow them to make my daughter choose between cutting herself off from her roots and becoming an outcast!"

Harry balls his hands into fists. As much as he hates to admit it, he has no right to contradict her on this – it's not his child she's talking about, and there can be no doubt that Draco would agree with everything she said. Still, the idea of Draco's daughter being forced to go to school abroad because there's no place for her in the world she grows up in seems too appalling for Harry to stand by and do nothing.

"All right."

Pansy frowns. "All right what? All right, you'll let me send her to Beauxbatons?"

"No, I meant 'All right, I'll apply for the bloody Ministry position'." Harry leans back in his chair, his shoulders suddenly aching with tension. "I don't agree with everything you're saying, but I can see your point. We fought a war to keep our society from being ripped apart, but it seems that now it's still happening in a different way. I won't allow that, Pansy – not after everything we've had to go through. If this position is the way to finally get it into everyone's head that the war is over, then I suppose I can't refuse it. Happy now?"

Pansy's relief is unmistakeable when she gives him the curious half-smile that's so typical of her. "Draco once told me that there were moments when you made him understand why he put up with you. I didn't believe him then, but I'm beginning to change my mind." She tries to push herself up from the armchair, only to sink back with a frustrated groan. "And now please help me get out of this damned thing so that I can leave you alone to write your application."

  
* * *

  
The meeting seems to drag on forever. Scrimgeour himself is presiding today, and he's droning on and on about a topic that Harry lost interest in five minutes after the Minister had opened his mouth. All around him, the heads of the different Ministry departments do their best to appear focused when they're probably just as close to falling asleep as Harry is. The room is stifling, the fireplace right behind the Minster radiating heat like a furnace. Harry casts a longing glance at the snowflakes that are dancing in the wind outside the window and tries to ignore the sweat that's trickling down his back under his uncomfortable formal robes.

For what he thinks must be the thousandth time, Harry curses himself for accepting this job that, so far, has meant nothing more than tons of useless paperwork, endless meetings filled with empty bureaucratic prattle and gallons of weak tea and dreadful coffee. He really doesn't see how the fact that he's wasting his time here is going to be of any help to anyone. It's not as if Scrimgeour, who has considered him an enemy ever since that fateful Christmas during sixth year, would ever entrust him with any matter of importance.

"Therefore, it's clear that the current state of affairs – Bridget, I said I was not to be disturbed!"

The young secretary blushes under Scrimgeour's glare, but she still approaches him. "Minister, I'm terribly sorry, but it's a matter of some urgency..." She leans down to whisper in his ear, and Scrimgeour's scowl deepens even more. Harry is sure it's not just his imagination that the Minister sends him a dark look while he listens, as if this interruption were somehow Harry's fault.

"Very well, Bridget. Mr Potter, my secretary informs me that your father-in-law just sent a message to your office, asking you to return home as quickly as possible. Your wife has gone into labour."


	5. Chapter 5

**From the Ashes  
Part Four**

by Fourth Rose

  
_Entreat me not to leave you or to return from following you;  
For where you go I will go, and where you lodge I will lodge;  
Your people shall be my people, and your God my God;  
Where you die I will die, and there will I be buried.  
May the Lord do so to me and more also if even death parts me from you._

_(Ruth I, 16-17)_

  
* * *

  
"Have you decided on a name yet?"

The question was clearly directed at Harry, but it's Pansy who answers before he has a chance to say anything.

"Lucia."

Mrs Parkinson's smile widens. "How perfect for a girl born on the 13th of December! Or were you thinking of my maternal grandmother?"

Pansy lowers her gaze to the baby in her arms when she answers softly, "Your Dad and I just thought it would be a good name for you, little one."

Harry feels his breath catch in his throat and blinks furiously because his eyes are burning all of a sudden. It takes him only a moment to regain his composure, but Mr Parkinson has still noticed his change of expression. Luckily, he seems to misinterpret it completely.

"Maria, darling, let's give the new parents a bit of privacy, shall we?"

Mrs Parkinson casts a longing glance at the baby, but nods nevertheless. "Well be back later, my dears." She steps up to the bed to kiss Pansy on the cheek and then, to Harry's surprise, turns to him and embraces him. Harry stiffens, uncertain how to react; until now, his mother-in-law seemed barely willing to shake his hand, let alone to show any sign of affection for him. He's secretly relieved when she quickly lets go again and sweeps out of the room, followed by her husband who pats Harry on the shoulder on his way out, as if to congratulate him on a job well done.

_It's a bit premature_, Harry can't help thinking. _The part I have to play in this is only just beginning._

When the door has closed behind her parents, Pansy turns towards him. "Are you all right with the name?"

It seems a bit late to ask him that, but Harry appreciates the gesture for what it is. "No," he replies truthfully, because he will never be all right with the memory of Lucius Malfoy for as long as he lives, "but that doesn't matter. I'm sure he'd be pleased."

Pansy smiles thinly, her eyes overly bright in her pale face. "Yes, I thought so too."

"Why didn't you call me sooner?" When Harry arrived home, less than ten minutes ago, Pansy's beaming parents were already waiting to take him to his newborn daughter.

Pansy frowns. "I firecalled you right after I'd alerted the midwife and my parents, but you weren't in your office. So I asked Dad to send you a message, and he said he would do so right away. I can't help it if it took all those secretaries almost an hour to get to you."

"An hour?" Harry is taken aback. "You mean it was all over within one hour?"

He realises a second too late that this wasn't the most tactful thing to say, because now Pansy's eyes are flashing. "You'd have wanted me to suffer longer, you bloody sadist?"

"No, that's not what I meant." Harry does his best to sound placating. "It's just that with Muggles – I mean, I know next to nothing about how it's done without magic, but I've heard that it usually takes much longer. Days, sometimes."

Pansy blanches. "One more reason to be glad that I'm no Muggle." They're reaching dangerous territory again, and to Harry's relief, Pansy seems to realise it too because she quickly changes the topic. "Would you like to hold her?"

Harry hesitates. "I've never held a baby, I'm not sure I – "

"Then it's about time you learned. Here, sit down and bend your arm like this – support her head, and hold her here..."

Harry's heart is in his throat when Pansy carefully arranges his posture and then lowers the baby into his arms. The tiny girl seems almost weightless and so fragile that Harry barely dares to touch her for fear that he might hurt her in some way. Pansy, however, gives him a satisfied nod. "You're doing fine. Don't worry, she's not made of glass, she won't break."

She leans back and closes her eyes, giving Harry time to take the first real look at the child who is going to grow up believing herself to be his daughter. The baby's face is red and wrinkled, the tiny eyes squeezed shut; her head is covered with fuzzy dark hair, which fills Harry with no small amount of relief since it would have been very difficult to explain how he and Pansy could have produced a fair-haired child. She's not particularly pretty to look at, but somehow, Harry finds he can't tear his eyes off her. There's an odd feeling in his chest, as if his heart were swelling to twice its usual size, making it difficult to breathe. Up till now, Harry's sole motivation for doing everything to make sure that this tiny being would have a future was the fact that she's Draco's daughter, the last remaining connection to the man Harry lost. Now that he's seeing her for what she is, this armful of new life, helpless and unaware of the pitfalls awaiting her in the world she's been born into, he feels a surge of fierce protectiveness that surprises himself by its intensity. Never since the end of the war has he felt more aware of himself, more focused on what he has to do; there will be no more drifting through the days, no more hiding from problems that need solving, no matter how difficult or painful it might be.

Harry carefully runs his finger over the baby's soft cheek and watches her scrunch up her face in reply. He has all but forgotten what it means to have a purpose in life, but now that he sees it before him, it almost comes as a relief.

_Hello, little one; I'm not your father, and I won't be able to replace the man who should be holding you right now, but I will do everything to make sure that there's a life worth living awaiting you, and if that means I have to change the world for you, I'll find a way to do it, I promise._

The baby lets out a small whimper, which causes Pansy to open her eyes again; she smiles when she sees Harry's alarmed expression.

"Don't fret, Potter, she just needs to sleep now. By the way, Mim has asked permission to take care of her since you hardly ever need him. You're all right with that, aren't you?"

Before Harry can answer, Mim has appeared with a crack at Pansy's call; he beams at Harry when he carefully takes the baby from him and leaves the room with her. Harry looks after him, not sure how he feels about a house elf nanny, but he remembers that Mim took care of Draco since his birth, so he's obviously qualified to look after a newborn infant.

Pansy's eyelids are drooping when Harry turns back to her; he's about to get up and leave to let her rest when she says, "We need to have a photo taken for the press, you know."

Harry frowns. "Why on earth should we do that?"

Pansy sighs deeply. "Potter, whether you like it or not, you are a figure of public interest, and since no journalist dares to approach you these days, they have been pestering me instead ever since they found out about my pregnancy. You were able to keep our wedding out of the headlines since it was so soon after the end of the war and the papers had other things to keep them occupied, but now the dust has settled, and you won't get rid of them so easily."

"They've been pestering you?" The thought makes Harry bristle. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"Because I didn't want you to storm into the office of the _Prophet_ and hex the editor. It never hurts to have the press on your side, especially in times like these. So I've agreed to one photo session with a photographer of our choice and a short article announcing the birth of your daughter, in which we will also ask the public to understand that we want to raise our child in peace. I think it's a compromise everyone can live with."

Harry thinks of the silent promise he just made and has to admit that Pansy is right, even though he still doesn't like the idea. "All right, then. I suppose you already chose the photographer, too?"

Pansy gives him a smirk. "I asked the _Prophet_ to send your old friend Creevey. It seems to me he hasn't had a chance to fawn over you for far too long."

  
* * *

  
Colin looks as if Christmas had come early when he turns up for the photo session two days later; he still shows remarkable talent to get on Harry's last nerve, but Harry feels oddly mollified by the way Colin fawns over Lucia.

"She's the most beautiful baby I've ever seen, Harry! Look at her, she's got your eyes!"

Colin is either sincere or a very convincing liar, and Harry is extremely pleased by the prospect that the _Prophet_ will spread the headline "Chosen One's daughter has her father's eyes" all over wizarding Britain, thus making sure people will see what they want to see whenever they look at Lucia in the future. This is even more important because Lucia _does_ have her father's eyes, a pale grey that only a colour-blind person could mistake for green. Pansy says that the colour is likely to change anyway, but Harry finds himself hoping it doesn't, even though it would make things easier. He can feel Draco looking at him through his daughter's eyes, and he doesn't want to lose that, no matter how painful it sometimes may be.

The week after Lucia's birth is a busy one. Harry can hardly get any work done at the Ministry since he's swamped with visitors. Friends, colleagues, and even people he barely knows stop by his office to congratulate him, tell him how happy he and Pansy look in the family photo the _Prophet_ printed (Harry thinks he looks mostly annoyed and Pansy rather tired, but thankfully, it's not _his_ opinion that matters), and ask about Pansy's and Lucia's well-being. There are moments when Harry fears his cheeks are about to start cramping from all the smiling, but whenever he comes close to locking his door and telling everybody to bugger off and leave him alone, he remembers the promise he made and perseveres. Meanwhile, Pansy takes care of the letters; they get dozens of owls every day, and she makes sure to answer them all and let Harry sign them in the evening when he returns from the office.

Harry is strangely touched by the fact that Molly Weasley can bring herself to send him her congratulations, and for the first time since the end of the war, he considers paying another visit to the Burrow some day. He sends Hedwig to the house of Hermione's parents with the news, and Hermione's answering letter is warm and heartfelt, even though the growing distance between them, now that Hermione has left the wizarding world for good, is still obvious.

The letter Harry sends to Neville in St Mungo's is returned unopened; the following day, Harry receives an owl from Augusta Longbottom, informing him of her grandson's death.

  
* * *

  
The forests surrounding the small graveyard look like a Christmas card, with the snow on the trees glittering in the bright winter sun. It's bitterly cold, but there's a huge crowd gathered around the open grave nevertheless. Headmistress McGonagall, looking decades older than the woman in Harry's memory, gives the eulogy, speaking of Neville's courage and loyalty until the end. The Minister insisted on giving a short speech as well, even though he probably didn't even know who Neville was, but Rufus Scrimgeour isn't one to pass up an opportunity for free publicity just because of such a small detail, Harry thinks cynically while he rubs his freezing hands together under his thick woollen cloak. Pansy, who is standing next to him, is wrapped in fox fur, but her lips are still blue in spite of the Warming Charms she's cast on her clothes. Harry didn't want her to accompany him since she's barely out of childbed, but she insisted.

The funeral doesn't last long, but many people linger, either to make their way to Neville's grave to pay their respects in private, or to gather in small groups outside the graveyard to talk. Harry would like nothing better than to take Pansy home before she catches cold, but she insists on staying a bit longer. There are many familiar faces in the crowd, and Harry has to shake dozens of hands and repeat the same statements about Neville's death over and over. He doesn't say what he really thinks, that Neville's life was over the moment Bellatrix Lestrange hit him with that curse and that he's glad for Neville's sake that his suffering has finally come to an end. Harry recalls the look in Bellatrix' eyes when he told her that he'd killed her master; that, he thinks with grim satisfaction, was his true revenge for everything the woman has done to him and to others. The Killing Curse he cast only seconds later was probably more mercy than she deserved.

"Harry!" Before he can turn around at the sound of the familiar voice, Hermione is already next to him and hugs him so hard that he has trouble breathing. "I'm so glad to see you again!"

She doesn't look well; her eyes are bloodshot and puffy, and there are deep lines in her face that make her appear much older than her twenty-six years. "It's good to see you too, Hermione," Harry says and means it, "although I wish it hadn't been on such an occasion. How are you doing?"

She shrugs. "I'm okay. I'm working as a dental nurse for my parents. It's a bit difficult since I've got no training, but I get by. What about you? How is your family?"

Harry still isn't quite used to hearing the word "family" in connection with himself, but deep down, he has to admit to himself that he likes the sound of it. "Fine, thank you. Pansy is around here somewhere..."

As if on cue, Pansy turns up at his elbow, giving Hermione a frosty, but civil smile. "Granger, how nice to meet you."

"Hello, Pansy." Hermione's tone is guarded, but she takes the hand Pansy offers her. "How is your daughter?"

"She's fine, thank you." Pansy's smile becomes a bit more genuine at this. "You must come visit us to see her sometime."

Harry is slightly taken aback, and he experiences a moment of dread as he tries to imagine what Pansy might want from him if she's prepared to make such an offer to Hermione.

Hermione seems surprised too, but she smiles back. "I'd like that very much." She hugs Harry again when she bids him good-bye and promises to stay in touch, but more than ever, Harry feels the rift between them that makes it impossible to exchange more than small-talk when they were once able to share everything that went on in their lives.

He turns to Pansy to ask her if she's ready to leave now, but she's not at his side any more. Instead, Harry spots Molly Weasley coming towards him with tears in her eyes. She, too, has aged far beyond her years during the war; there are streaks of white in her red hair, and her face is much narrower than he remembers it and criss-crossed with wrinkles.

"Harry." The tears are making their way down her cheeks as she takes his hands in hers; it isn't lost on Harry that she doesn't hug him any more, but he knows that he wouldn't be able to blame her if she didn't even talk to him. "You look well, my dear boy. How are you doing?"

"I'm fine, Mrs Weasley. How are you?"

She does her best to smile. "I manage, as always. Harry, I – I saw the picture of you with your little girl in the _Prophet_ last week, and I just wanted to tell you again that I'm so very happy for you. Your daughter, and Bill and Fleur's little boy – they give me hope things are eventually going to be all right again."

Harry feels a lump in his throat; he has to take a deep breath to keep his composure. "Mrs Weasley, I – it means a lot to me to hear you say that, really." He hesitates, but he can't _not_ ask, even though he dreads the answer. "Is Ron here?"

She doesn't meet his eyes when she shakes her head. "He wanted to come, but he – he hasn't been feeling well lately." It's her turn to hesitate now, but then she presses on. "Harry, I know he didn't answer any of your letters, but – I'm sure he'll come around. He's always been your friend, and – you'll give him time, won't you?"

"Of course I will." Harry is sincere, although he can't share Mrs Weasley's optimism. He has seen too many people being broken by the war to keep hoping that Ron will ever be himself again. "Please say hello to him from me."

"I will, dear." Molly squeezes his hands once more before she lets go. "And Harry – you know that you're welcome to visit us at the Burrow whenever you want, right?"

"Yes, I know." Harry feels a pang of yearning for those times when he couldn't wait until he'd get to stay at the Burrow again. He bids Mrs Weasley good-bye and goes to search for his wife in the crowd.

  
* * *

  
"That's another old wizarding family gone," Pansy says thoughtfully when Harry helps her out of her cloak, "at this rate, there won't be any left in a couple of years."

Harry is only half-listening; he keeps replaying the conversations with Hermione and Molly in his mind while he follows Pansy into the living room. "It was nice of you to invite Hermione, even if I don't think she'll come."

Pansy takes a seat next to the fireplace and massages her cold fingers. "Why shouldn't she? It's not as if you'd had a big falling out or something."

Harry sits down in the chair opposite from her, grateful for the warmth that slowly seeps into his numb hands and feet. "No, but she has left the wizarding world for good."

"She'll be back." Pansy sounds completely certain about this, and Harry raises his eyebrows in surprise.

"How can you be so sure?"

"It stands to reason. There's no life for her in the Muggle world, is there? She has been away from it for years, she hasn't learned anything she'd need there, she can't use her abilities – do you really think she'll be able to stand it in the long run?"

Harry shrugs. "At the moment, it looks more like she can't stand the wizarding world."

"That will pass. Mark my words, she'll be back before you know it."

"I hope you're right." Harry sighs and leans back in his chair. "I miss her, and Ron, too."

Pansy is suddenly sitting ramrod straight. "You're not thinking of inviting _him_ here, are you?"

"I don't think that's an option right now," Harry says without paying attention to the way Pansy's face darkens, "Ron hasn't been himself since his father and sister were killed, and – "

"Potter," Pansy interrupts him, her voice icy. "Let's get this out of the way once and for all. You're welcome to invite Granger, or any other Gryffindor of your choice; I'll be civil to all of them and respect the fact that they're your friends since you're willing to put up with my folks. But Ronald Weasley will never set foot into my house, do you hear me?"

Harry is taken aback by the hatred in her voice; to the best of his knowledge, Pansy has no reason to resent Ron any more than the rest of his friends, and something in her tone makes him bristle. "Your house? Last time I checked, this was our house, and neither of us had any business telling the other what to do!"

"Then let me put it differently." Pansy's expression is steely. "If you insist on bringing Weasley here, I'll take my daughter, go back to my parents' house with her, declare publicly that she is not your child, and you'll never get to see either of us again. How's that?"

Harry stares at her with his mouth open. "Are you mad? You're threatening to leave – over this?"

"I will do everything in my power to make sure Lucia will never have to stay under the same roof with Ron Weasley, Potter. You'd better keep it in mind." She holds up a hand to cut off Harry's reply. "And no, I'm not going to tell you why, so don't even ask me about it."

Harry shakes his head, but he feels the matter isn't worth fighting over since the question of inviting Ron or not will probably never arise. He has heard that many women have problems with unbalanced hormones or something of that kind after a birth; perhaps that's the reason Pansy is behaving so strangely. "Whatever you say. Ketty!"

Pansy's elf appears with a crack. "Master called?"

Harry winces, but he knows it's a losing battle; unlike Mim, Ketty refuses to stop calling him 'Master', no matter how often he tells her to. "I could do with a cup of tea."

"Two cups," Pansy adds, and Ketty disappears and comes back moments later with a laden tea tray. For a while, Harry and Pansy sip their tea without talking. Finally, when the silence becomes oppressive, Harry decides to offer an olive branch; after all, it's not Pansy's fault that her hormones are acting up.

"What were you saying about old wizarding families before?" He can't help feeling it's a positive sign that this is slowly becoming a topic that's safe for discussion; they still have vastly different views on the subject, but they hardly ever fight over it any more.

Pansy lowers her cup with a sigh. "I said that they keep dying out – the Blacks, the Malfoys, and now the Longbottoms, all gone for good."

"The Malfoys aren't gone yet, and neither, strictly speaking, are the Blacks," Harry reminds her; this is something he has given some thought lately.

Pansy shrugs. "Yes, I know that Narcissa Malfoy is still alive, but she's in exile and unlikely to –"

"That's not what I meant," Harry interrupts her quietly, "I was talking about Lucia. She's a Malfoy and a Black, isn't she?"

"She's neither." Pansy's expression is carefully neutral. "She's either a fatherless Parkinson bastard or a Potter, but she can never be a Malfoy, remember? She won't even know who her real father was." Her eyes narrow when Harry doesn't answer immediately. "Potter? What are you thinking about?"

Harry takes a deep breath. "I've been asking myself whether we're doing the right thing. Not telling her who she really is, I mean."

Pansy's face goes blank. "Are you trying to back out of our agreement?"

"What? No!" Harry leans forward a bit; for a moment, he's tempted to reach for Pansy's hand, but he thinks better of it. "It's just that I'm not happy with the idea of – of stealing Draco's daughter from him. I know that no one must learn the truth now, because the name Malfoy seems blackened beyond repair, but – things can change, over time."

"What are you saying?" Pansy seems incredulous. "That you want her to know?"

"Not while she's a child, no. But I've been thinking that perhaps, in a few years – when she comes of age, maybe – we'll be able to tell her the truth. Times will be different then; the war will be in the past, and it may be safe for her to carry her real name. I know how important his family was for Draco; I'm sure he wouldn't have wanted it to die with him, and I don't want his daughter going through life without knowing about him."

Pansy's expression softens. "Potter, listen to me. I have no intention to let her grow up without knowing about Draco. There are pictures of him all over my rooms, and I will start telling her stories about him the moment she can talk. She will grow up with his memory, and perhaps, if the time is right and we think she'll be able to bear it, we will one day tell her the truth. But no one else must ever know, and she can never inherit the Malfoy name."

She takes another sip from her cup before she continues. "You should know by now how things are done in the old families. Bastards can't inherit; if I wanted Lucia to be Draco's heiress, I'd have to claim that Draco and I had been secretly married before she was conceived. This is a claim that must either be made under Veritaserum, or I'd have to present the written testimony of two witnesses who were present at the secret wedding. They, too, would probably be questioned under Veritaserum, unless they were persons of such public standing that no one would dare to gainsay their word."

She hesitates for a moment before she adds, "Mind, this is the way I would have chosen if you hadn't offered to marry me. I was only halfway there, though, and I doubt I'd have been able to uphold the claim."

Harry frowns. "Do you mean to say that you already had one witness for an alleged secret marriage?"

When Pansy merely nods, he asks, a bit impatiently, "Who?"

"It shouldn't be hard to guess, Potter, since it has to be a person for whom Veritaserum doesn't constitute an insurmountable obstacle."

Harry's eyes widen. "Snape?"

"Who else?" Pansy puts her cup back on the tray with a sardonic smile. "He always cared for Draco. But as I said, he was the only one I could think of. Therefore, unless you're suddenly willing to consider perjury yourself, his testimony isn't going to help."

Harry regrets that he ever brought up the topic, but it's too late now. Pansy's half-veiled challenge is clear enough: if he really wants Lucia to be regarded as Draco's legitimate daughter, all it will take him is a written lie, since no one will dare to question his testimony if he should choose to give it. However, Harry isn't sure if he's really willing to go that far; he has been forced to act against his own principles time and again during the war, but the idea of basing Lucia's life on a lie makes him deeply uncomfortable. It seems that the Slytherin streak in his character has its limits, after all.

Eventually, Harry decides to stall. With time, perhaps there will be another solution. "This is not something we need to decide today, is it?"

It's clear from Pansy's expression that it's exactly the answer she expected him to give. "No, of course not."

  
* * *

  
Christmas is a quiet affair. They're spending Christmas Eve at the house of Pansy's parents, together with Pansy's sister-in-law and nephew. Harry has already met both of them at his wedding, but he's barely spoken to either of them then; now he's pleasantly surprised to find that Susanna Parkinson is an intelligent, talkative woman whose wicked sense of humour hasn't been erased by the hardships the last years have brought her. Her six year-old son, Robert, is shy at first and downright wary around Lucia, but he quickly warms up to Harry when Harry offers to play a game of Exploding Snap with him. For the rest of the evening, he follows "Uncle Harry" around like a puppy, which causes Pansy no end of amusement and embarrasses Harry a bit, although he can't help feeling touched by the boy's adoration.

"I hope he doesn't bother you?" Susanna asks Harry when she's finally managed to make Rob sit down and play quietly by himself for a while. "It's just that he probably sees you as the next best thing he has to a father, and –"

"It's fine, really," Harry interrupts her before she can continue, "he's a nice boy, and he doesn't bother me at all." In fact, he's secretly relieved that Rob likes him so much; he's never had anything to do with children before, and now that he's about to raise a child himself, it's reassuring to know that he's able to handle them.

Pansy seems to think along the same lines, because she grins and raises her eggnog in a mock salute. "Wait until your daughter is old enough to pester you, then we'll talk again."

"If she's anything like you were as a child, Pansy dear, Harry is in for a challenge," Mr Parkinson remarks dryly, and the whole table erupts into laughter. Harry is quite surprised by the way the evening is going; he was less than enthused when Pansy told him about her parents' invitation because he expected a stiff, stilted affair, not this utterly comfortable family gathering. Now he's almost sorry when it's time to leave.

They Apparate back to their house without waking Lucia, who has spent most of the evening sleeping in the Parkinsons' old nursery under Mim's watchful eyes. Once they're home, Pansy takes the baby from Mim to take her to bed, but she hesitates a moment before she leaves the room. "Potter, I – that was a really nice evening."

On an impulse, which may have to do with the fact that he's slightly tipsy from too much eggnog, Harry leans in and kisses her on the cheek. "Yes, I enjoyed it too. Happy Christmas, Pansy."

She smiles at him as she closes the door behind her, and Harry can't help thinking that maybe, just maybe, things are really going to be all right for them all some day.

  
* * *

  
"Have you decided yet what you're going to wear to the Ministry ball?"

It's the first thing Pansy asks Harry at the breakfast table on Boxing Day; Harry takes it as a sign that the Christmas truce is over. He doesn't look up from the toast he's buttering when he replies, "I haven't even decided if I'm going."

Pansy rolls her eyes. "How silly of me to presume. The Ministry gives a great big ball to celebrate the first New Year after the war, inviting everyone who holds a position of any importance in wizarding Britain, and you haven't decided whether you should grace it with your presence because, God forbid, you might meet a few important people there."

With a sigh, Harry lowers the knife. He knows very well that he won't be able to avoid the ball, but that doesn't mean he has to give in without a fight. "You're aware of the fact that I can't dance, right?"

"Yes, I remember your performance at the Yule ball quite clearly." Pansy grimaces. "Do you really mean to say you haven't improved since then? Oh my."

"Forgive me," Harry shoots back with a hint of sarcasm, "I don't know what I was thinking, fighting a war when I could have been taking dancing lessons instead."

Pansy sighs. "Ketty, take the piano from my study to the living room and clear the sofa and armchairs away. I have to make sure my husband won't embarrass me in public."

Harry is reluctant at first, but he quickly realises that Pansy is not only a good dancer, but also a rather good teacher. She's spelled the piano to play by itself since she claims that house elves are utterly tone deaf and can't be taught to play musical instruments. After some initial stumbling, Harry is soon getting a feeling for the steps and the rhythm, and he can't help thinking that he'd have been spared a lot of public humiliation back at Hogwarts if someone had bothered to teach him the basics of ballroom dancing before the Yule Ball in his fourth year.

"Not bad, Potter," even Pansy has to admit when he makes it through the third consecutive waltz without stepping on her toes. "Let's try something slower for a change, shall we?"

Harry is slightly out of breath, so he's quite thankful for the change of pace. It's surprisingly nice to dance like this, slowly turning to the soft music with Pansy's arm around his neck and her body snug against his and – wait. Since when does he feel even the slightest interest in Pansy's body? Mentally calling himself to order, Harry concentrates on the steps of the dance once more.

"I believe that's enough for today," Pansy says suddenly, and it isn't lost on Harry that she appears a bit flustered too. "Now, what are you going to wear? Don't think I'll go to an important social gathering with you without making sure that you're adequately dressed."

With a shrug, Harry heads for his bedroom. He has a particular set of dress robes in mind that he's hidden at the back of his wardrobe; he's never worn them before, but somehow he feels that it's time to break them out at last.

Pansy is sitting at the piano in the living room and idly playing a simple melody when he comes back. She has her back to him and turns when she hears him enter. "So, let's see what – oh."

Harry can't help grinning at her astonished face. "I take it this is adequate?" He feels a bit like a Chinese emperor in his robes of heavy, deep-red silk with their intricate gold embroidery of intertwining dragons on the collar.

Pansy appears speechless at first, but she quickly regains her composure. "There's no way in hell you ever chose these yourself, Potter. Draco gave them to you, didn't he?"

Harry doesn't answer since he feels there's no need to. Pansy takes a deep breath, but her voice is firm when she asks, "You do realise that you're practically forcing me to wear green to the ball now?"

Harry smiles at this. "It should go nicely with your new necklace." He's still quite pleased with the Christmas gift he found for her it a small jeweller's shop in Diagon Alley: a silver necklace in the shape of a snake biting its own tail that slithers around the neck of the wearer in a perfectly lifelike fashion.

Pansy raises an eyebrow. "You want your wife to appear at the Ministry in Slytherin colours with a serpent round her neck?"

"Weren't you the one to demand public statements on the matter from me?"

She gives him a smirk that, for a second, reminds him so much of Draco that his breath catches in his throat. "I'll come dressed as your public statement, then."

  
* * *

  
"Harry, good to see you! Won't you introduce me to the charming lady?"

Harry winces at the fake joviality in Scrimgeour's tone; the Minister only calls him by his first name when there are reporters nearby, and it never fails to make Harry feel slightly itchy all over. He's not about to show any sign of it in a packed ballroom surrounded by the upper crust of wizarding Britain, of course.

"Minister, this is my wife, Pansy."

Pansy graces Scrimgeour with her sweetest smile, and Harry can't help thinking that he'll dive behind the nearest heavy piece of furniture if she ever looks at _him_ like that. "I'm honoured to meet you, Minister!"

"The honour is all mine, Mrs Potter!" Scrimgeour booms and actually kisses the hand she's holding out towards him. Pansy smiles on, seemingly oblivious to the fact that the Minister's eyes, slightly unfocused from one glass of champagne too many, are glued to her cleavage. Harry feels quite annoyed by this; Scrimgeour's tendency to become grabby when he's drunk is well known, but Harry didn't think he'd have the poor taste to openly ogle a woman in the presence of her husband. Pansy's neckline is far from being indecent, but the emerald green dress robes are figure-hugging enough to bring out the soft swell of her breasts, and the effect is heightened by the lazy movements of the silver snake around her neck. Until now, Harry thought that the necklace looked rather nice on her, but now he suddenly regrets ever buying it for her.

Before he can steer Pansy away from the Minister, the music strikes up again, and Scrimgeour takes hold of her hand and leads her towards the dancefloor with a careless, "You'll excuse us, Harry, won't you?" thrown over his shoulder.

It takes Harry some effort not to show his anger. There's every chance that Scrimgeour has no interest in Pansy whatsoever and is merely trying to humiliate him, but the only thing he can do right now is to act as if he didn't mind. He notices with grim amusement that Pansy manages to keep the Minister at arm's length even while she's batting her eyelashes and flashing him another fake smile as they dance. Besides, Scrimgeour's rather pronounced limp does nothing for his performance, and Harry takes some petty satisfaction from the thought that even he probably cuts a better figure on the dance floor.

"Don't worry about her," an amused voice next to Harry speaks up, "it looks like she's able to handle him."

"Hello, Percy." Harry's tone is reserved; he has met Percy Weasley a few times since he started working at the Ministry, but they've never exchanged more than greetings and a few words of polite small talk. "You look well."

It's true, too; to Harry, it seems that Percy is one of the people who are born aged forty inside and become more comfortable with themselves once they start getting closer to that age in actual years. Percy hasn't completely lost his pompousness, but it appears more natural in a man approaching his thirties than it did in a teenager.

Percy shrugs. "I suppose I can't complain. They pay me well enough for playing the Minister's personal bell-boy."

Harry raises his eyebrows; he wouldn't have expected Percy to speak this openly, least of all to him. "Unhappy with your job?"

Percy takes a sip from his champagne glass. "I certainly don't have the opportunities your position offers you. I hear you're planning some interesting changes to the Hogwarts syllabus."

Now it's Harry's turn to shrug. "I see that words spreads fast at the Ministry. I've merely made a few suggestions so far; Headmistress McGonagall is interested, but I think it's safe to assume that the Minister is going to oppose me at every turn."

"What did you expect?" Percy is looking straight at Harry now, and somehow Harry feels he's trying to tell him something he doesn't want to say aloud. "You know he thinks you're after his job."

"You can put his mind at ease in that regard," Harry answers coolly, "if I'd wanted that, I'd have gone into Law Enforcement instead of Magical Education – that's where the real power is these days, as everyone knows."

"I'm not so sure about that." Percy scans the room, as if he were looking for someone. "Speaking of Law Enforcement, I'm a bit surprised not to find you surrounded by a crowd of fellow Order members. I'm missing the esteemed Headmistress in the crowd, too."

"She's not feeling well these days, and she probably thinks she can put the energy she has to better use at Hogwarts than at Ministry receptions." Harry takes another glass of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter – on official occasions like this, the Ministry considers the use of house elves inappropriate. "And you can stop your needling about the Order, Percy – I know very well what they think about my marriage, and I'm telling you that I don't give a damn. I've been their mascot long enough, but the war is over, and they'd better live with the fact that I make my own choices now."

Percy holds up his hand in a placating gesture. "Hey, I'm hardly in a position to speak for the Order, am I? And as to your marriage – Pansy, it's good to see you again!"

"Percy! I've been looking for you all evening!" Pansy has finally managed to extricate herself from Scrimgeour's clutches, and to Harry's surprise, she walks straight up to Percy and kisses him on both cheeks. They start chatting as if they were old friends, which leaves Harry baffled; he wasn't aware that Pansy ever had anything to do with Percy after their time at Hogwarts, and he's quite sure they weren't on the best of terms back then.

Before he can manage to insert himself into their conversation, however, the huge clock at the far end of the ballroom begins to strike midnight, announcing the approach of the New Year. While the enchanted ceiling erupts into multi-coloured fireworks and the sound of people cheering drowns out the music, Pansy turns to Harry and manages to completely throw him off balance by grabbing him by the collar of his robes and planting a rather steamy kiss on his lips. He's half-blinded by a barrage of flashlights going off around them, and after a moment of utter shock, he almost bursts out laughing at the realisation that he's involved in a very Slytherin kind of revenge: Minister Scrimgeour is only just about to deliver his long-awaited speech, but Pansy has already made sure that it won't be his photo on the front page of the _Prophet_ edition that celebrates the beginning of the first year of peace. Harry likes the idea so much that he isn't even bothered by the fact that the pictures of him snogging Pansy will be all over the country in a few hours.

Besides, even though he certainly has never felt the slightest desire to snog Pansy, it isn't quite as bad as one might have expected.

  
* * *

  
Whatever expectations Harry had for the first morning of the New Year, they certainly didn't include the development of a full-fledged battle strategy over breakfast. He's still a bit bleary-eyed and would like nothing better that to eat his toast in blessed silence, but Pansy is brimming with nervous energy.

"So your precious Order friends are snubbing you, but since none of them holds any real influence outside their own field of work, that's no skin off your nose. Scrimgeour detests you because he fears you, which is going to be of tremendous help with those who are becoming impatient with his way of running the Ministry like it's his personal property. The papers still love you since Scrimgeour makes for a pathetic figurehead, and once you stop instilling the fear of God in journalists, you should be able to use them to your advantage whenever you want. But there are still many who don't know where you're standing, and you'll need to – "

Harry holds up a hand to stop her monologue. "Pansy, you're giving me a headache. Is there a point to this?"

Pansy rolls her eyes. "Have you been listening to anything I said? You keep talking about all those changes you'd like to bring about, but since we both know that Scrimgeour will always oppose you, he's an obstacle that you must overcome – for good, eventually."

"I may be popular with the readers of the _Prophet_ at the moment, but I still doubt I'd get away with murder," Harry replies mildly while he reaches for another piece of toast. Pansy doesn't even deign this remark worthy of a reply.

"The position you hold is completely new, and it's yet to be determined how much influence you're actually going to have. You'll need contacts, and allies, if you're to build your own power base at the Ministry. I want you to start inviting those of your colleagues that might be of help there; I'll try to think of the right people from outside the Ministry they should be brought in contact with." Harry is about to protest, but he doesn't even get a chance to speak. "Save me your arguments, Potter, this isn't open for debate if you want to go anywhere at the Ministry. I take it you haven't forgotten the promise you made?"

Harry doesn't answer; he isn't thinking of his word to Mr Parkinson, but of the moment when he first held Lucia in his arms and promised her that he'd change the world for her sake.

Pansy takes his silence for agreement, because she continues, "You also want to keep an eye on Percy Weasley. He's Scrimgeour's personal assistant, and while that's a position that doesn't come with much official power, there's a lot he can do through informal channels. Plus, he has successfully made Scrimgeour believe that he's nothing but a useful idiot, and given how paranoid Scrimgeour is, that's no small feat."

While she's been talking, Harry was finally able to finish his breakfast and feels now a bit more ready to participate in the discussion. "Speaking of Percy, there's something I wanted to ask you. What kind of business did you have with him that makes the two of you act as if you'd been friends all your life?"

"Draco never mentioned him to you?"

"Draco? What did he have to do with – wait a moment." Something finally clicks into place in Harry's head. "That contact at the Ministry Draco had, who helped him evade the Order for the better part of three years – that was _Percy_?"

"That was Percy, yes. It was one of Draco's most brilliant ideas to approach him – everyone among us thought he was crazy, that Percy would rat him out to both the Ministry and the Order, but Draco insisted that he knew a man with his own agenda when he saw one, and it turned out that he was right."

Pansy takes another sip from her cup before she pushes it away with a determined expression. "But you can ask him about the details yourself, because his name is high on the list of people I want to see gathered around my dinner table in the near future."

  
* * *

  
"You know, Harry, I've never been a big fan of Firewhisky, but I think I could get used to this. Seventy-two years, you said? Where did you get it from?"

Harry smiles as he watches Percy take another sip from the amber liquid. "It was a Christmas gift from my father-in-law."

"He must be quite fond of you."

"To be honest, I suppose this particular sign of affection had more to do with the fact that Lucia had been born only two weeks earlier."

Percy nods earnestly. "All right, that is a strong argument. I have yet to meet anyone who isn't besotted with your daughter at first glance – it may take physical force to pry Penelope away from her when it's time to leave."

Harry can't help grinning at this; Pansy knew exactly what she was doing when she lured Percy's wife into the nursery so that Harry and Percy could talk in private. "The more attention Lucia gets, the happier she is, so I'm sure she'll be glad of the extra admirer."

Percy sighs. "Penny always said she wanted children once the war was over. We've been trying for a while now, but no luck so far." He notices Harry's slightly embarrassed expression and quickly changes the topic. "I don't think you've invited me here to talk about children, though."

"There are things we need to discuss."

"There are indeed." Percy takes another sip from his whisky. "Don't get me wrong, Harry, Pansy's dinner parties are quickly becoming famous, and I always enjoy them, but I'm glad it's just you and me tonight. I've been waiting for an opportunity to talk to you in private for quite a while."

Harry does his best to keep his face neutral. He detests Pansy's "famous" gatherings with a burning passion, but he's well aware that they're having the desired impact. Ever since the beginning of the New Year, their house has seen a constant stream of carefully chosen visitors, and he can't help admiring Pansy's skill at weaving an intricate network of contacts and prospective allies. Not for the first time, he thinks that she'd make for a much better politician than he ever will.

The whole setting has an almost surreal feeling to it – this is Percy Weasley, after all, whom Harry saw strut around the Burrow with his polished Prefect's badge, get teased by the twins, and humiliated by his first boss. Now they're sitting in front of the fireplace in Harry's study, sipping Firewhisky that probably cost more than their combined monthly wages as if they did it every day, each of them careful not too give away too much in case they've been wrong about the other one's motivation. Harry can't help wondering if it was really just the war that changed them into what they are now, or if this kind of transformation happens to everyone once they grow up.

They're both silent for a while. Then, unsurprisingly, Harry is the first to lose his patience; he's never been good at dancing around the issue.

"Just to get this out of the way, I know about your contacts with the dissident movement during the war."

It isn't lost on him how Percy's back stiffens. "Yes, and?"

"It has caused me to believe that you're not happy with the way the Ministry is run at the moment."

Percy relaxes visibly; there's a cynical smile on his lips when he replies, "That's a bit of an understatement, and you know it, Harry. The way Scrimgeour is going, it won't be long until we have the next war on our hands. He's dividing wizarding society into those who support him one hundred percent, and those who are dangerous criminals and must be eradicated at all costs."

"You didn't always think so, I recall." Harry is unlikely ever to forget that fateful Christmas during sixth year.

Percy shrugs. "I was young, naive, and still believed that the Ministry was actually interested in things like peace and justice. Let's say Scrimgeour has since managed to change my perception of them."

"Yet you're basically his right hand."

Percy gives a short, bitter laugh. "Yes, as in being the hand he scratches his arse with. I'm only where I am today because he thinks me stupid. If it hadn't been for Draco who convinced me that there was still a lot I could do from my position, I'd have quit years ago." For the first time since their conversation began, he's looking straight at Harry. "I had high hopes for Draco's movement in the beginning; I really believed that his group might be a way to come to some sort of agreement with those who followed Voldemort only because he seemed to be the only real alternative to Dumbledore."

Harry takes a deep breath, doing his best to keep the memories in check. It had been the most hopeful period of the whole war, followed by the bitterest disappointment he'd experienced during all these years. "Shacklebolt thought so too; that's why he told me to get in contact with Draco and see if we could work out some kind of truce."

"Yes, and it would have worked, wouldn't it? If Shacklebolt hadn't been killed the following month, allowing Scrimgeour to practically take over the whole Order because –"

"- because I was barely twenty, and no one believed I'd be able to replace Kingsley as leader of the Order." Now it's Harry's turn to sound bitter. "Trust me, I remember." He'll never forget all the pointless fights with Scrimgeour – no matter how hard Harry tried to make him see reason, Scrimgeour was unwilling to listen. Those who weren't firmly on his side were enemies, and he would hunt them to the death, no matter whether they were followers of Voldemort or not. For a second, Harry experiences a surge of overwhelming hatred at the thought that Draco might still be alive if it hadn't been for Scrimgeour's steadfast refusal to agree to the truce the dissidents had offered.

Percy gives Harry a shrewd look. "Convenient timing, don't you think? If Shacklebolt had lived but a year longer, past your legendary arrest of Dolohov, Pettigrew, and Rabastan Lestrange, things might have turned out differently for the Order."

"What are you saying?" Harry's thoughts are reeling; there isn't much he'd put past Scrimgeour, but this has never occurred to him. "You think Scrimgeour had something to do with Kingsley's death?"

"I have no proof for this, mind," Percy replies carefully, "but I've known him for too long to believe in that kind of coincidence. If Shacklebolt had lived, there would have been a truce with the dissidents, the war would probably have been over several years sooner, and all the credit would have gone to the Order, not to the Minister. You did him a great favour by taking yourself out of the equation after the end of the war, Harry; that way, he was able to reap much of the glory that should have been yours." He holds up a hand to keep Harry from interrupting him. "Yes, I know, you've often said you're not interested in fame. I think you've come to your senses lately, though, haven't you?"

"I'm still not interested in fame, Percy," Harry points out, "but at the moment, my fame is everything I have going for myself, so I have to take it from there."

Percy seems very serious now. "Harry, there's a bit of advice I'd like to give you: make sure you remain in the spotlight, so that people don't forget about you, and don't let them forget about the fact that Scrimgeour hates you, either. I've seen how he tries to play nice with you in public, but you mustn't let him. Believe me, the enmity between you two is the only protection from him that you have, because he knows he'd be the one everybody would suspect if something happened to you."

Harry raises his eyebrows. "You think he really would go that far?"

"If he feels he's standing with his back to the wall and sees no other way to keep his power, then yes, absolutely."

Harry shakes his head. "I honestly have no intention to take over from him. I do think we'll need a better Minister in the long run, but it can't be me, not if we want to heal the rifts the war has caused instead of opening them further."

Percy nods emphatically. "We need someone who can bring worlds together, who understands the different sides and is able to find compromises everyone can live with."

"Yes, absolutely." Harry hadn't been planning to drop the bombshell this early in their conversation, but he feels that now is as good a time as any. Percy would make for an invaluable ally, and he has just the right incentive to offer him. "How would you like to be Minister one day, Percy?"

If the circumstances weren't so serious, Harry would laugh out loud at the way Percy's jaw drops. "What?"

"You heard me." Harry does his best to sound businesslike. "You seem like the ideal candidate to me, and when the time comes, I'll back you up any way I can. We're not there yet, though, so we'll need to take one step after the other."

It's quite obvious that Percy has to fight hard to keep his composure. Once more, Harry silently congratulates Pansy on her political instinct; it was her idea to offer Percy that kind of perspective, and after some serious deliberation, Harry came to the conclusion that Percy does indeed sound like a good choice for the post. _Let Scrimgeour fixate on you_, Pansy said just the other night, _and build up your candidate right under his nose until you think the time has come_. It sounds like a good plan to Harry, and he's determined to see it through.

"Right." Percy has finally found his voice again. "What are your plans for the present, then? I've heard all kinds of rumours –"

"There are things that need to change at Hogwarts, Percy," Harry interrupts him, "and I'll bring them about, whether Scrimgeour likes it or not. I'm working closely with McGonagall on this, and she agrees that there need to be personal changes as well as changes to the syllabus."

"Someone said you want to bring Remus Lupin back."

"It's true." Harry is well aware that he's opening a can of worms there because anti-werewolf sentiments are stronger than ever thanks to the memory of Fenrir Greyback. "It won't be easy, but we need a competent Defence teacher, and Lupin is the best I can think of."

"He's not troubled by the fact that the post is supposedly jinxed?"

Harry rolls his eyes. "I wish people would finally get it into their heads that with Voldemort's death, that curse is gone. Snape is teaching Defence at the moment because nobody else dared to take the post when Hogwarts reopened; they had to let him teach again even though there were plenty of protests."

"I'm quite surprised you weren't among those who protested, you've always hated him."

Harry's voice is cold when he replies. "My personal feelings for Snape are completely irrelevant here. He was cleared of all charges by the Wizengamot, and it is well-known that he played a crucial part during the early stages of the war. He's a competent Defence teacher, but Slughorn wants to retire next year, and Snape will have to take over teaching Potions instead."

"And you really think you can make the board of governors agree to hiring Lupin."

Harry smiles thinly. "I can be very persuasive at times."

Percy is slowly shaking his head. "Harry, I must admit that you surprise me. When you took over your department, I was convinced you wouldn't last a month, but now..."

Harry raises his glass in a mock salute. "I've come a long way since we were both schoolboys, Percy."

"A lot has happened since then, yes." The change in Percy's tone is impossible to miss, and after a moment's hesitation, Harry follows his gut feeling and says, "I was at the Burrow two weeks ago."

Percy's head snaps up at this; for a moment, he looks like a deer caught in the headlights before he visibly pulls himself together. "How – how is everybody?"

Harry shrugs. "As can be expected. Your mother is a strong and brave woman, but she's been through a lot."

"I'm aware of that." There's a bitter edge to Percy's voice. "Did she invite you over?"

"Not quite." Harry pauses, but then he decides to be honest. "I ran into Ron in a pub near the Ministry, and I – well, he was in no state to Apparate, so I took him home."

Percy doesn't say anything, and Harry hesitates again, but then he adds, "I thought that your mother would never want to see me again after Ginny's death, but she seemed genuinely happy that I'd come. Percy – what's done is done, but they're still your family."

"I know that, Harry," Percy replies quietly, and he clutches the armrest of his chair so tightly that the knuckles turn white. "Trust me, I know."

  
* * *

  
As spring approaches, it happens more and more frequently that Harry returns home from work to find that Pansy has gone out. This wouldn't strike him as odd if it weren't for the fact that she never takes Lucia with her, whom she always brings along if she visits her family or goes for a walk in the garden to get some fresh air in the weak spring sun. Besides, she never mentions where she's been when she comes back, and Harry can't think of a reason why she wouldn't tell him if she'd gone shopping, met some friends of hers or something of that kind.

Harry has the nagging suspicion that she's having an affair. He feels that he doesn't really have a right to confront her about it – their marriage is a mutual agreement to raise Draco's daughter together, nothing else, so it's really none of his business who Pansy chooses to sleep with as long as she doesn't cause a public scandal. Still, Harry can't help it that the idea of Pansy meeting a clandestine lover troubles him more than it should. He finally comes to the realisation that it's not so much for his sake – irrational as it may be, he can't understand how Pansy, who has given birth to Draco's daughter just a few months ago, could already be willing to hook up with somebody else for the sake of a few stolen moments of passion. He knows it's stupid to expect her to remain faithful to a dead man who was more her best friend than her lover in the first place, but it keeps bothering him.

It may have to do with the fact that Draco is constantly on his mind these days. Ever since Lucia's birth, which forced Harry to stop hiding from the demands life makes at him, he hasn't been able to keep the memories at bay the way he used to before. Thankfully, he's much too busy to dwell on them most of the time; between his work at the Ministry, the frequent social gatherings, and his determination to spend as much time with Lucia as humanly possible, there's hardly any breathing space left. Still, the memories will always catch up with him eventually: during a quiet moment at his office, in Lucia's nursery, when he lifts her out of her cradle and looks into those pale grey eyes, or at night, when he wakes sweat-soaked and panting from the ghostly feeling of familiar hands on his skin.

Whenever it's getting too much, he takes a detour on his way back home in the evening and Apparates to the small, quiet graveyard in Wiltshire. He'll just stand beside Draco's grave, look at the simple headstone and let the memories wash over him without trying to steer them into a specific direction. He doesn't feel closer to Draco in this place than anywhere else, but there's a strange feeling of peace that he takes with him when he leaves, and Harry knows that it will help him get through another couple of days.

It's a warm evening in May when he comes home from work later than usual. Pansy is out again, and Mim tells him that Lucia has only just fallen asleep, so Harry doesn't want to risk waking her by going into the nursery. He's tired to the bone, but he can't bring himself to sit down and relax; he got into a heated argument over the choosing of Hogwarts professors with Scrimgeour today, and he keeps replaying the whole conversation in his head until he feels ready to climb the walls. Mim tries to make him eat dinner, but Harry is too jumpy to feel hungry. At last, he takes his Invisibility Cloak and Apparates to the entrance of the graveyard.

Now that the weather is getting warmer, it happens sometimes that there are other people visiting the cemetery, so Harry takes care to stay hidden under the Cloak whenever he comes here; he doesn't want to be seen beside Draco's grave. He doesn't spot anyone when he makes his way along the rows of headstones, but as he approaches the place where Draco is buried, he notices the sound of a female voice speaking nearby. The voice grows louder as he comes closer, and there's no mistaking the fact that it belongs to Pansy.

Careful not to make a sound, Harry slowly steps up to the grave. Sure enough, there's Pansy, her face half-hidden under the hood of her dark blue cloak, crouched on the stone slab that covers the grave. There's no one else nearby, but she keeps talking as if she were deep in conversation with someone. Without thinking, Harry takes another step towards her so that he can see her face and hear what she's saying.

"...incredible how fast she's growing. Every day, she looks more like your mother in those photos of her which you showed me. It's a good thing Potter goes around announcing how proud he is that she looks so much like him, or there might be questions sooner or later."

She pauses for a moment, as if she were listening to a voice only she can hear; then she smiles. "No, I'm not going back on my statement that he's a royal pain in the arse, and I still can't understand what possessed you to hook up with him in the first place. He has managed to surprise me a few times, though, and I think I'll manage to get used to him in the long run. I've put up with _you_ for twenty years, haven't I?"

Again, she pauses, and when she speaks again, her eyes are shining with unshed tears. "I'm fine, you git. Besides, if there ever is trouble, I've got your personal Gryffindor hero at my disposal thanks to you." She traces her fingers over the engraved letters of Draco's name on the headstone when she adds, quietly, "Yes, of course I miss you."

Harry has to cover his mouth with his hand to keep himself from making a sound. Slowly, treading as softly as he can, he backs away from the grave; he has no business being here and intruding on this, and he's sure Pansy would never forgive him if she knew he'd been listening.

He's shaking with an emotion he has no name for by the time he reaches the cemetery gate, and it takes him a while until he feels composed enough to Disapparate.

  
* * *

  
**References:**  
_"How perfect for a girl born on the 13th of December!"_ \- The 13th of December is St Lucia's Day.


	6. Chapter 6

**From the Ashes  
Part Five**

by Fourth Rose

  
_Oh, cease! must hate and death return?  
Cease! must men kill and die?  
Cease! drain not to its dregs the urn  
Of bitter prophecy.  
The world is weary of the past,  
Oh, might it die or rest at last!_

_(Percy Bysshe Shelley, Hellas)_

  
* * *

  
Harry doubts he could ever love Lucia more if he really were her father. In just a few short months, she has become his safe haven in the ongoing storm that is his life, the small, precious part of his existence that makes perfect sense and gives a new meaning to everything he does. It's strange somehow, because it caught him utterly unprepared; before all this, he never even thought about having children, and now this tiny human being is quickly becoming the centre of his universe.

He can sit for hours on end beside her cradle while she sleeps, content to watch over her and make sure that nothing disturbs her. It's not just because he still sees Draco in her eyes that he considers the moments he gets to spend with her the happiest of each day that passes; no matter how difficult things may be at the Ministry, or how tired he is of having to play a part that he just isn't made for, the knowledge that he's doing it for her sake makes it bearable.

Strange, too, how taking care of her has made him and Pansy start actually sharing their lives to some extent instead of just living them side by side. The times when they only saw each other during meals are long past, and somehow, Harry is glad of it; Pansy will never be the person he'd have chosen as his companion, but he finds that he prefers her company to being alone all the time. This is new, and he isn't quite sure when it started, but he has come to realise that he rather enjoys her presence when they're sitting in the living room together with Lucia in the evening. They usually talk politics while Harry has Lucia on his knees and tries to keep her grabby little hands away from his glasses. When she gets tired of this game, she prefers it if they put her on a blanket on the floor, where she wiggles about (she doesn't quite know how to crawl yet) and tries to pull herself up on Pansy's robes until her strength gives out and she flops back with a soft thud.

Sometimes she just squeals and tries again; at other times, when she's tired or in a temper, she starts wailing until Pansy picks her up and whispers meaningless little endearments into her fluffy dark hair to soothe her.

When that doesn't help, Pansy usually resolves the matter by giving her the breast, which quickly puts an end to the wails. The first time she does it in his presence, Harry asks her if she wants him to leave, which causes Pansy to look at him as if he'd just grown a second head.

"Why would I?"

Harry clears his throat, uncertain why he's feeling a bit embarrassed. It's not as if he's never seen breasts before, after all. "It's just that I thought you'd prefer a bit of privacy to –"

"Potter, you're my bleeding _husband_, for pity's sake." Pansy is rolling her eyes now. "If the sight of my nipple causes you to run away screaming, then you know where the door is. Otherwise, you're welcome to stay, I don't give a damn." With that, she turns her attention back to Lucia, and Harry leans back in his chair, doing his best not to stare too obviously, and stays.

He'd never admit this to anyone, but he rather likes watching Pansy breastfeed the baby. Her face, which – apart from the times when she's angry – is usually set in an expression of carefully maintained indifference, becomes softer somehow, the premature lines between her dark eyebrows aren't so prominent any more, and there's a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. Lucia's tiny pink hands press against the soft white skin of Pansy's breast in a way that reminds Harry of a litter of kittens he once saw knead their mother's teats with their paws while they crawled all over each other in their greed to get to the milk. He knows better than to mention this to Pansy, of course, but he remembers how the mother cat purred while she watched her insatiable brood with an air of utter contentment.

Besides, Pansy has _really_ nice breasts. So far, Harry as always gone for the slim and rather flat-chested type, but now he can't help thinking that there's a lot of appeal to the gentle curves of Pansy's body as well.

Harry reckons that he should feel ashamed for ogling a nursing mother, but Pansy allowed him to stay, and she's bound to know that he's not blind, after all. He sometimes catches himself at the thought how her breasts would feel under his hands, whether they would really be as soft and warm as they look. He usually manages to rein in his frivolous imagination as soon as he becomes aware of what he has been thinking – that is, whenever it happens during the day.

Nights are a different matter altogether.

During the war, when Harry often didn't get to see Draco for months on end, he developed a wide range of fantasies to help him through the empty nights, fantasies that were usually based on slightly enhanced memories of their previous encounters. After Draco's death, Harry shut them away in a distant corner of his mind, and he would never consciously go there to retrieve them now. Unfortunately, while he can censor his thoughts when he is awake, he has no control over his dreams.

Over the past few months, he has been waking up from dreams that leave him sweaty, panting, and painfully hard, with growing frequency. He usually still has hazy afterimages of the scenes in his dreams – flashes of blond hair and pale limbs, the feeling of cool hands and soft lips on his skin, the pressure of a warm, lean body against his. He has come to dread these moments, when he stares into the darkness of his bedroom with his pulse racing and the sweat-soaked sheets sticking uncomfortably to him, his body aching for release while his mind is frantically trying to avoid going back to the remnants of the dream.

He just can't bring himself off to images of a dead man, no matter how persistently they keep haunting his nights. There isn't that much else in his past that he can use as a substitute, either. There were a few meaningless one-nights stands, the results of loneliness, desperation, or just one Firewhisky too many in the wrong surroundings, and they always left a bad taste in his mouth afterwards; then, of course, there was Ginny, but these are not memories Harry would be likely to dwell on even if she were still alive. Ginny's cocky display of daredevil courage didn't last long once the war had started in earnest; the longer and uglier it got, the more the frightened little girl who was hoping for the hero to save her began shining through the facade again. They'd never officially got back together after his sixth year, but sometimes she would come to him at night and slip into his bed without speaking. Harry dreaded these nights when she clung to him until he gave in and obliged her, his mind far away while he mechanically went through the motions, concentrating on the sound of his own breathing so he wouldn't hear that she always called him Tom when she came.

The only person in his past who it feels safe to think about is Cho, and it seems strangely fitting in a way because this is exactly what their relationship was at the time: a safe way to forget the world outside and relax for a few hours before it was time to wade back into the fray, with no emotions involved and no strings attached. Cho went into Auror training right after the beginning of the war and lost another boyfriend and a husband before she'd finished it. This caused her to swear off relationships for good and regard sex as nothing but an enjoyable pastime from this time on. After a drunken night at Auror headquarters in celebration of a major Death Eater arrest, Harry ended up on the sofa in Shacklebolt's office with her, and it earned him a standing invitation to her bed whenever they both felt like it.

The infatuation he had once felt for her was long past, but he always enjoyed himself with her, and he found the utter lack of any demands – other than those of a purely physical nature – incredibly relaxing. He sometimes thinks that Cho kept him sane during the darkest periods of the war, when his life seemed to consist of nothing but fighting and planning while he missed Draco and was worried sick about him. His relationship with Draco, whatever it really was, was never an exclusive one, and while Cho wasn't able to fill the void Draco's absence left behind, she at least made Harry feel better for a few hours. He hopes very much that he was able to do the same for her.

Now, it is once more Cho he turns to when his mind is searching for an image that will let him take care of his body's demands. He tries to banish the lingering echoes of his dreams, replacing them with memories of glossy black hair and dark eyes, smooth skin against his own, and a gentle, very feminine voice whispering in his ear. Then, finally, it feels safe to let his hands slip beneath the waistband of his pyjamas and start stroking himself with quick, perfunctory movements that will allow him to relieve the aching tension as quickly as possible so he can go back to sleep. He tries not to think about the fact that sometimes, when he's getting close, the full, soft breasts of the woman in his fantasy look nothing like Cho's.

  
* * *

  
"I hear congratulations are in order."

Harry grins at Percy, who's standing in the doorway of Harry's office. "Hello to you too – and thank you."

"It's true, then?" As always, Percy waits for Harry's inviting gesture before he sits down in the visitor's chair in front of Harry's desk, even if he's become a regular visitor whenever Scrimgeour is unlikely to notice his absence.

"If you mean Remus' appointment as Defence teacher, then yes, it's true. Scrimgeour can throw all the tantrums he wants, the board of governors won't overrule McGonagall's choice."

Percy shakes his head in amazement. "How did you do it? The majority of the board members come from old families and are conservative as hell. How did you manage to make them accept a _werewolf_ teacher?"

Harry shrugs. "It wasn't that hard to make them see reason, as a matter of fact. Besides, what really eased their minds was the fact that I promised to take full responsibility for the decision towards the newspapers and the parents of the Hogwarts students."

"Oh my." Percy winces in sympathy. "You'll be up to your ears in Howlers once this hits the papers. Lupin is a capable teacher and an Order member, but –"

"He's not Fenrir Greyback, Percy," Harry interrupts him, "and he has Snape nearby to keep him supplied with Wolfsbane Potion. He's perfectly safe."

"I know that," Percy replies; he looks slightly affronted that Harry would imply otherwise, "but I doubt everyone will see it that way. May I ask what Pansy had to say about it?"

Harry shrugs again. "Not much." It's true, too; Pansy's only comment has been _I hope you know what you're doing, Potter._

"Well, then." Percy adjusts his glasses – silver-framed instead of the horn-rimmed monstrosities he used to wear as a student – and tactfully changes the topic. Sometimes, Harry can't help wondering what Percy really thinks about his relationship with Pansy, and he's almost sorry that Percy is too much a politician to ever tell him. "What's next, then? I seem to recall that you were talking about changes to the syllabus."

"Yes, but that's still in the early stages. I've been thinking that we need to change Muggle Studies into a mandatory subject for all the students, starting in their first year – something that encompasses both worlds, the Muggle and the magical one, and helps the students understand the background of the other side. I remember how completely lost I was in the beginning, when I knew next to nothing about things that my pureblood classmates had grown up with, and on the other hand, most purebloods are so clueless about Muggles it's not even funny any more."

He realises a second too late how spectacularly he has just put his foot in his mouth, but Percy just grins weakly.

"I bet Dad would have loved that."

Harry isn't sure what to say to that. Before he can think of anything, Percy adds, almost like to himself, "I was at their funeral, you know."

Harry takes a deep breath. "Your father's and Ginny's?"

Percy nods absentmindedly; he's not looking at Harry when he continues, "I wore a Glamour Charm so that no one would recognise me because the twins would have killed me on the spot, but – I just couldn't stay away."

"Percy," Harry says, steeling himself, "I'm going to the Burrow again next weekend." He hasn't been planning on going back there so soon, especially since Pansy refused to talk to him for days after his last visit, but he isn't sure how long Percy will be in the mood to listen to him. "I want you to come with me. Your mother has suffered enough, and frankly, so have you."

Percy is quiet for a moment, then he says, in a strangely choked voice, "I'll think about it."

When he continues, his tone has changed completely. "So that's Defence and Muggle Studies covered. What's next? _Please_ tell me you'll do something about History of Magic."

Harry nods, his expression grim. "You bet I will. We need someone who'll teach the students stuff that's actually useful instead of Goblin Rebellions. If we'd been told the truth about Voldemort's first rise in Binn's class, many of our generation might have made different choices later."

Percy whistles through his teeth. "That's going to be one hell of a fight."

Harry gives him a smile with no humour in it. "That's what I'm here for, isn't it?"

"You'll need to tread carefully if you don't want to make enemies on all sides, Harry, but I suppose you've got Pansy to keep you from doing that." Percy sounds very serious, but then, he almost always does. "Speaking of enemies – who's going to be Head of Slytherin House, now that Slughorn is about to retire?"

"That's up to the Headmistress to decide, but my best guess would be Snape."

Percy seems taken aback. "And you'll let her?"

Harry does his best to keep his expression neutral. He is careful not to think of that night, of the flash of green light up on the Astronomy tower. "Like I said, it's not my decision to make. Besides, I can hardly keep telling people to accept that the war is over if I refuse to do the same."

  
* * *

  
Molly Weasley's face turns ashen when she sees Percy standing in the door beside Harry. For a heartbeat, there's absolute silence; Fred stares, George frowns, and even Charlie, blinded by a reflected curse in the final battle, lifts his head in surprise as if he could feel the sudden tension in the room. Then Mrs Weasley makes a strange sound, a mixture between a strangled cry and a sob; in the next moment Percy is caught up in an embrace that must make his ribs crack.

Harry turns away and walks out the door, feeling that he no longer has the right to be with the Weasley family in a moment like this.

He finds Ron in the back garden, sitting on the low bench right under the kitchen window. He barely looks up when Harry sits down beside him. "So the prodigal son has returned?"

Harry nods, noticing the slight slur to Ron's speech with a pang of dread. His hope that Ron would at least be moderately sober at this early hour has clearly been unfounded, but he can't bring himself to leave again – not while a part of him is still trying to recognise his childhood friend in the wreck of a man beside him.

Ron sighs. "Fitting. Now that they've got another one to play the misfit, they can bring precious Percy back into the fold. I always knew that she'd do it, even when the others swore they'd hex him if he should dare to approach this house again. I never doubted she'd _forgive_ the traitorous little shit if he came crawling back to her."

"He didn't." Harry's voice is a lot calmer than he feels. "Percy did what he thought he had to do, and he certainly never betrayed any of you. Besides, I all but dragged him here today, it wasn't his idea."

Ron gives him a strange look. "Will you ever get over the need to play the saviour wherever you go, Harry?"

Harry shrugs, assuming that this will be the end of their conversation, when Ron completely surprises him by asking, "How's the family doing?"

Harry blinks. "My family?"

"No, the royal family, you twat. Who else?"

"Well, they – they're fine, thanks, Lucia is growing pretty fast and Pansy –" He stops talking when he hears Ron chuckle. "What's so funny?"

Ron is shaking with laughter now. "It's just that… I never thought you'd one day tell me about the well-being of Malfoy's pug-faced little whore, you know?"

"Ron." Harry's chilly tone is a warning his childhood friend would at least have _noticed_. "Please don't forget that it's my wife you're talking about."

"'Course, mate. The precious Mrs Potter." Ron is still laughing. "So you owe me now, don't you? After all, I'm pretty certain that she'd never have married you while the ferret was still alive, huh?"

Harry feels the hair on the back of his neck rise. It's difficult to breathe all of a sudden.

"What are you talking about?"

Ron gives him a sly look. "You really don't know? Scrimgeour didn't tell even _you_? Bloody hell, I'd have shouted it from the rooftops, but the idiot wanted to keep it out of the papers."

Harry tries not to listen; he wants to move, to get up and leave, but he can't, he's frozen on the spot, and Ron's unsteady voice keeps going on…

"Because I did it, Harry! He was the one who'd had it coming since he was eleven, and he might have got away if it hadn't been for me! He turned up when we were bringing in the Dementor for his dear old daddy, he must have found a way around the Anti-Apparition Jinx because he just popped out of the air with his wand drawn… threw a Dark curse but missed, pathetic little loser that he was – reduced his own father to a pile of ashes, and that was the only good thing he ever did in his miserable life… also the last, because I got him the same moment he threw the curse. AK'd him nice and clean, though Scrimgeour didn't want that part to get out because of me not being an Auror and so on. But I did it."

There's a mad gleam in Ron's eyes now. "I didn't get to see Lucius Malfoy kissed by a Dementor, but at least I was able to send his traitorous spawn to hell right after him."

  
* * *

  
It's already dark when Pansy enters the study where Harry is sitting at his desk, his face buried in his hands.

"He told you."

Harry doesn't even look up; there's no need to confirm what was clearly a statement, not a question. For a moment, the room goes quiet; then there's the sound of soft footfalls approaching him.

Ginny would have put her head on his shoulder and wept all those tears he wasn't able to shed himself. Hermione would have embraced him tightly and whispered words of comfort although she knew them to be empty. Pansy does neither; she merely places a hand on his shoulder and remains, quietly, by his side.

The horrified stupor that Ron's words have left behind eases a bit from the warm, secure presence of her light touch. Harry tries to draw a deep breath and realises that he can't, that something is rising in his throat that has been waiting to resurface for years – all the loss, sorrow and grief that he kept locking away within himself because there was never time for it, because giving in to it would have made him weak and vulnerable when he couldn't afford it. It's coming back with a vengeance now, rushing past the barriers he's erected around his mind like a flooding river tearing down the dams that used to confine it. For the first time since the day they buried Dumbledore, the tears that have been burning in his eyes for far too long are beginning to spill over his cheeks, and then Harry is crying like he's never cried before, until his whole body is shaking with racking sobs that make him feel as if his heart were about to burst out of his chest.

It's as if the weight of ten years' worth of mourning, which he has been carrying around for so long that it became a familiar, almost normal feeling, has finally become too much to bear, and now it's choking him until he feels like he's suffocating, like he's being crushed under it. He would never have consciously allowed himself to come apart in front of Pansy, but he's past caring, past his ability to put up any kind of resistance.

The tears keep coming, tears for all those the last ten years have taken from him, and Harry cries for all of them, for Ginny and Arthur and Tonks and Neville, for Draco and the future they might have had, and for Ron, who has been by his side almost until the end, and whom he lost in a way that is much worse than everything death could ever have done to him.

Pansy doesn't move or make a sound, she just keeps her hand on his shoulder and lets him be. Harry loses every sense of time; he couldn't say whether it's a minute or an hour later that he's finally wept all the tears he has and the sobs have faded into low, ragged gasps that hurt in his throat. Pansy's face is blurry before his eyes when he finally looks up at her and covers her hand with his, as if he needed to make sure it is real.

"Tell me." His voice sounds strange in his own ears, hoarse and shaky, but Pansy merely nods and walks over to the cold fireplace, where she sits down in one of the two chairs and gestures for him to join her there.

Harry is acting on pure instinct, but he feels he just can't keep up any pretence of composure right now, and after what Pansy just witnessed, it probably doesn't matter any more. She's already seen him at his most vulnerable, and for the first time in what seems like forever, Harry is prepared to admit that he needs the support she has to offer. Remembering the feeling of her hand on his shoulder, he crouches down on the floor by her feet, just like Lucia likes to do when she's playing in the living room, rests his forehead on her knee and closes his eyes.

She doesn't react at first; perhaps she's surprised by this open display of weakness that will seem very much unlike him to her. Yet she understands, because after a moment, Harry feels her hand gently smoothing down his hair and coming to rest at the nape of his neck. He leans into the touch, pathetically grateful for the small amount of comfort it brings, and repeats, "Please tell me."

"It was right after you'd killed the Dark Lord, and the Order had begun hunting down the remaining Death Eaters." Pansy's voice is detached, as if she were re-telling a story that she read in the _Prophet_ this morning. "The Ministry was in a state of complete panic; they were afraid that there might be a last desperate attempt from the imprisoned Death Eaters to escape, and besides, while Scrimgeour was content to let the Order members take over the truly dangerous tasks, he wanted to make it look as if the Ministry too were involved in the last battle somehow."

Harry clenches his teeth, remembering the nightmarish days after the death of Voldemort only too clearly. The remaining Death Eaters knew they had nothing left to lose, and they fought accordingly.

"Therefore, Scrimgeour gave the order to have all imprisoned Death Eaters executed. Several members of the Wizengamot protested immediately because the Minister has no right to issue death sentences, so he switched tactics and decided that he wouldn't have the Death Eaters killed, but Kissed instead, now that they had the Dementors back in their service. I heard that he was quite pleased with this solution because it would render the victims harmless, but would leave him with living trophies who could be paraded around afterwards if the need arose to remind the population of his importance in the war. First to go, of course, was Lucius Malfoy."

Harry remembers only too well; Lucius had been arrested only days before Voldemort's death, and Harry had been immensely relieved that it hadn't been him to make the arrest. Scrimgeour didn't even dare to send Voldemort's right-hand man to Azkaban, but decided to lock him up right at the Ministry to make sure he wouldn't escape.

Pansy takes a deep breath, but her voice is steady when she continues. "Percy let Draco know, probably just so that Draco would be prepared when he heard the news. I'm sure he didn't expect that Draco would try to do anything about it."

Harry raises his head at this; Pansy's face is calm, but there's a strange look in her eyes that he can't interpret. "He really tried to get his father out of -?"

Pansy shakes her head. "He knew there was no way to save his father, and I think that he would have been able to live with it if they'd merely executed Lucius. But to be Kissed – Potter, I'm not sure how much you really know about Draco's feelings for his father, but you need to understand that they never changed very much, not even when Draco left the Dark Lord's inner circle and started opposing him. He disagreed with Lucius' political choices, but he never stopped loving and admiring the man himself, and there was no way he could stand by and allow the Ministry to take his father's soul and keep the remains of him around as a trophy of their victory."

Harry feels his breath catch in his throat. He remembers what Ron told him about the events surrounding Draco's and Lucius' deaths, and suddenly it all makes sense with terrifying clarity.

"He didn't got to the Ministry to break his father out – he went there to _kill_ him?"

Pansy merely nods, and Harry closes his eyes again and remembers that Snape wanted to put _'Loyaulte me lie'_ on Draco's headstone.

_Loyalty binds me. _

"He must have known he wouldn't make it out alive."

"He did." Pansy's hand on his neck is trembling slightly, and Harry is almost grateful for this indication that she's not as calm as she seems. "He came to me right before. He wouldn't tell me how he was going to get past the Ministry security. Percy swears he had nothing to do with it, and I believe him – Percy respected Draco, but he had no reason to lift a finger for Lucius Malfoy's sake. But Draco said that there was a way, and that he had less than half an hour left before it was time. I –" Her voice cracks, and it takes her a moment to compose herself. "Of course we both knew how dangerous it was, but I also knew I wouldn't be able to stop him. He wouldn't have been able to live with himself if he'd let this happen to his father. He said there was a chance that he'd make it out again, and I desperately wanted to believe him, even though I'm sure he didn't believe it himself. Neither of us wanted to admit that this might be the last time we saw –" She falls silent, and Harry can't help reaching for her free hand.

"Why didn't he try to contact me? I might have been able to do something." It is the question that has been torturing him ever since he learned of Draco's death – they'd been lovers for almost five years, and Draco still hadn't asked for his help when he would have needed it most.

Pansy's hand remains limp in his grasp when she replies, "You'd gone after Bellatrix Lestrange, Potter, there was no way for him to reach you."

The statement leaves Harry strangely numb; he doesn't have any energy left to feel the pain or the remorse he probably should feel now. All he can think of is the sound of Bellatrix' mad laughter when the green flash of his Killing Curse hit her; as if she'd known that in the end, she'd won again.

"So he came to you –"

"Yes." Pansy's voice is harsh, but her fingers tighten around Harry's as if she needed something to hold on to. "He came to me, upset and utterly terrified, and so was I, and that's how we spent our last half hour. We had stopped sleeping together long ago, once he became seriously involved with you, so I hadn't taken any precautions, but I didn't even think about it. All we knew was that that the only thing to do was to hold on to each other while we still could, and we did. Then he left, and his daughter was orphaned within the hour of her conception."

She's quiet for a moment, then she adds, like an afterthought, "If it hadn't been for Percy, they wouldn't even have let me bring back his body for a proper burial."

Harry remains silent; he feels there's nothing left for him to say. He expects Pansy to push him away, to get up and leave, but she stays where she is, one hand on the nape of his neck, the other one clasping his. Her expression doesn't give away what she's thinking, and he can't bring himself to ask.

He closes his eyes again and tries to draw a little comfort from the fact that at the very least, they have each other to share their grief with, no matter how little they have in common otherwise.

  
* * *

  
A year ago, Pansy's revelations about Draco's death would have caused Harry to lock himself away in some dark corner and not come out for weeks. Now, though, he doesn't have the luxury of taking time to lick his wounds any longer, and he finds that frantic activity is the only thing that will help against the numb, empty feeling that threatens to overwhelm him whenever he has a moment to himself. He flings himself into his work as if his life depended on it, and it's surprisingly soothing to keep working until he almost falls asleep on top of the files on his desk or in the middle of a meeting. If even that fails, he still has Lucia to remind him that this is no time for him to fall apart.

The shadows are always there, lurking in the corners of Harry's mind, but Lucia's smile keeps them at bay. She's reached the age where she's starting to babble, and whenever Harry picks her up and hears her make sounds that, with a bit of imagination, might mean "Dad", he feels a steely kind of determination to keep going, no matter how much he's choking on his grief.

It's only sometimes, when he's lying awake at night because sleep just won't come, that he suddenly remembers Lucius Malfoy's stone-cold eyes looking at him through the slits in a Death Eater mask. These are the moments when overwhelming hatred rises like acid bile in his throat and he wants nothing more than to lash out at _someone_, at Scrimgeour for refusing to see past his own agenda, at Bellatrix for keeping Harry away from where he should have been that night, at Pansy for allowing Draco to get himself killed, or at Draco himself for throwing his life away to save the soul of a man who'd willingly surrendered it to the forces of darkness years before.

Even during those moments, though, he can't bring himself to hate Ron. Harry knows only too well that Ron is another victim of the war, another name on the list of people Harry loved, and still couldn't save.

These are the nights when he doesn't fall asleep until the crack of dawn for fear what his dreams might be about. He's aware that he can not, _must_ not dwell on this – sometimes, he feels as if he can see Draco, one blond eyebrow raised and his mouth twisted into the familiar sarcastic sneer, telling him to get over himself.

_Spare me the dramatics, Potter, your righteous anger isn't going to accomplish anything. _

He has heard that sentence from Draco more often than he can count, and it always made him furious because he knew that Draco was right. Draco tried to teach him to hone his hate and anger into something else, into a cold, focused kind of fury that would not lash out blindly, but hit exactly where it would do the greatest damage to one's enemies.

_With your head, Harry, not with your heart – trust me, I learned it the hard way myself. _

Although he would never have admitted it, Harry always knew that it was sound advice. It's just unfortunate, he thinks bitterly, that Draco himself forgot about it in the end, when his loyalty to a man who had never deserved his love and adoration won out over all his clever principles.

Painful as they are, there's a part of Harry that relishes these moments, when something Draco used to tell him surfaces so vividly in his memory that he feels as if he were hearing Draco's voice again. He wonders if it's like that for Pansy all the time; if she can hear Draco so clearly in her mind that she carries on conversations with him like the one Harry witnessed. Several times, he has been close to asking her about it, but he has always remained silent so far – he just isn't sure they've become close enough to discuss these things, and he wonders on occasion if they ever will.

Pansy never mentions their talk about Draco's death, but it seems to Harry that her behaviour towards him has softened a bit ever since. She seems more ready to smile at him when they're sitting in the living room together while Lucia, on her blanket on the floor between them, is trying to catch the hem of Pansy's robes, and sometimes, when she enters his study to talk with him about something, she puts a hand on his shoulder for a moment like she did that one evening. Harry is surprised how much these little gestures have come to mean to him, even if he has no idea what motivates Pansy to make them in the first place. Of course, he doesn't ask about that either.

True to her word, Pansy doesn't object when Harry invites Hermione at the beginning of August. Ever the perfect hostess, she allows Hermione to hold Lucia and keeps a rather stilted, but polite conversation going at dinner before she excuses herself to let Harry and Hermione talk among themselves. Later, she doesn't even gloat too much when Harry tells her that Hermione informed him she's going to come back to the wizarding world to start training as a nurse at St Mungo's.

The encounter with Hermione leaves Harry deeply uncomfortable. Hermione kept bringing up Ron – she'd been to the Burrow a few days earlier and still hadn't recovered from the shock of seeing Ron in his current state. Harry had no way to make her comprehend why he didn't want to talk about anything that concerned Ron, and it was painfully obvious how disappointed Hermione was in him. Harry understands that she must think he's giving up on his oldest friend for no apparent reason, but there's nothing he can do about it. He keeps hoping that he isn't going to lose Hermione over this, too, but there were moments during their conversation when he felt like he was talking to a stranger, and he can't help wondering whether they haven't lost each other already.

"Give it time," is the only thing Pansy says when he mentions his fears to her. He likes that about her: she's willing to listen when he talks about things that bother or worry him, but she never offers any kind of false comfort. Her candour can be harsh at times, but Harry has been lied to often enough in his life to appreciate it nevertheless.

  
* * *

  
Harry is perched on the edge of his desk and reading a letter from Mr Parkinson that just arrived by owl when the door to his study bursts open. Pansy is standing on the threshold, her face red and her eyes flashing, a piece of parchment with a broken seal in her hand – clearly, Harry's letter wasn't the only one the owl delivered.

Harry knows perfectly well what this is about, but he can't resist the temptation to feign ignorance. "Is something the matter, Pansy?"

Pansy seems winded, although she can't have run much further than along the corridor. "Potter – Harry – did you... I mean, Dad tells me he –" She pauses for a moment to draw breath, then continues in a calmer tone, although her voice is still trembling with excitement. "Dad tells me he has been chosen as a member of the Wizengamot to replace someone who retired last month."

Harry gives her a polite smile. He's aware that he's enjoying this far too much, but he just can't help himself. "Well, that is good news. I'll send him my sincerest congratulations."

Pansy takes another deep breath, her eyes narrowing dangerously. "What are you playing at? You had a hand in this, didn't you?"

Harry's smile turns smug. "I may have."

It was surprisingly easy, even; most members of the Wizengamot have been thoroughly irritated by Scrimgeour's recent, rather blatant attempts to interfere with their decisions. The Wizengamot isn't part of the Ministry of Magic, although it has its location there and traditionally recruits most of its members from the Ministry staff. Still, the Ministry has no official influence on the Wizengamot other than the fact that the Minister and the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement are entitled to be members of the court. The choosing of new members is up to the three Chief Warlocks, and while every Minister in the past tried to throw his weight around sometimes when it came to deciding on a candidate, none did it with Scrimgeour's heavy-handed arrogance.

Hence, it wasn't that hard for Scrimgeour's most prominent opponent to pique their interest in a candidate who is highly unlikely to have any ties with the Minister, especially since said candidate comes from an old and respected wizarding family. The fact that Mr Parkinson had Voldemort's vanquisher advocate his case obviously outweighed his political affiliations which are still regarded as questionable by the majority of the wizarding public, although Harry has already heard murmurs among the old pureblood clans that it may have been a bit rash to tar the neutral families with the same brush as the Death Eaters.

Harry is perfectly aware that the Warlock Council thought he was mostly trying to do his father-in-law a personal favour, and it doesn't bother him overmuch. He witnesses on a daily basis how things are done at the highest levels of government – if he won't push for a candidate he favours, someone else will do it for theirs. Besides, he has come to respect Mr Parkinson, and he seriously believes that he will have a beneficial influence on the decisions of the Wizengamot beyond just helping the cause of the neutral families in the long run. Therefore, Harry has been able to pull strings and strike bargains with a clear conscience, and he is quite pleased with the result.

'Quite pleased' doesn't even begin to describe how Pansy obviously feels about it. She looks as if she's only now beginning to believe that this is real and not just some elaborate joke; her eyes widen almost comically, and all she manages to get out is a strangled, "You..."

Harry's smile widens into a grin. "Me."

In the next moment, Pansy's arms are around him, and he gets just a glimpse of her beaming face before her lips are on his.

Something hot and heavy seems to explode in Harry's chest, and before he can think about what he's doing, his hands come up to hold on to Pansy when she's trying to draw back. It's evident that she only meant to give him a friendly thank-you peck, but she doesn't resist when he pulls her closer. Her mouth opens under his, and she even tentatively responds when he deepens the kiss. He fleetingly wonders how long he has wanted to do this without being aware of it, because it seems like a homecoming to feel her, taste her, breathe in the smell of her. Harry only realises that his hands have begun to wander when the feeling of her breast under his palm, both firm and ever so soft, begins to register on him. The moment he notices what he's doing, the spell is broken; Harry snatches his hand away with a feeling of deep embarrassment and half expects her to slap him for his presumption.

Pansy, however, merely lets go of him and takes a step back. She seems thoroughly flustered, as if she weren't sure how to react, and it isn't lost on Harry that he can see her pulse beating rapidly against the skin of her neck. At last, she says "I just wanted to thank you" in a surprisingly small voice and gives him a hesitant smile before she turns on her heel and hastily leaves the room.

Harry stares after her, his mind reeling and his mouth still tingling with the feeling of her lips on his.

  
* * *

  
Pansy doesn't come to dinner in the evening; when Harry asks Ketty about her, the house-elf informs him that she has gone out. Harry noticed before that Pansy often visits the cemetery on Sunday evenings (although she's still unaware that he knows where she's going), but so far, she has never missed dinner over it, and he spends the evening mentally kicking himself for his slip-up.

He is about to go to bed when he remembers that in his preoccupation, he didn't check on Lucia tonight, so he throws on a dressing-gown over his pyjama bottoms and makes his way across the corridor. The nursery is right next to Pansy's bedroom, and Harry notices the narrow streak of light under Pansy's door – she must have Apparated straight into her bedroom when she returned. For a moment, he is tempted to knock and apologise for his behaviour, but he finally decides to postpone it until the morning since she might see it as an invasion of her privacy – after all, he has never set foot into her bedroom or even seen the door stand open until now.

The door _is_ open, though, when he leaves the nursery a few minutes later, satisfied that Lucia is sleeping soundly under Mim's watchful eyes. Light spills from the bedroom into the dim corridor, Pansy's silhouette a dark outline against it. Surprised, Harry takes a step closer; only now can he make out her face, which is wearing an expression he has never seen on her. Her cheeks are flushed, her brows drawn together, and she raises her chin in a way that looks almost defiant.

Before he can say anything, Pansy speaks up in a low, strangely flat voice. "Would you like to come in?"

This is so completely out of the blue that it takes Harry a moment to reply, and even then he only manages, "What?"

Pansy takes a step back and opens the door further; now that she's standing in the light, Harry realises that there's no sign of a nightshirt or pyjamas underneath her velvet dressing-gown. "You heard me."

Harry still isn't sure what to think, although the meaning seems obvious enough. "Just so we're clear on this, do you mean –"

"Yes, I do," Pansy interrupts him with a hint of impatience in her tone. "I'm offering, in case you're interested. Which I think you are."

There's no denying that last statement, and Harry has stepped over the threshold and closed the door behind him before his brain has fully caught up with what is happening. Pansy doesn't give him much time for consideration now, either, because her hands are already busy with the belt of his dressing-gown. Every attempt at rational thought goes right out the window the moment she touches his bare skin; she is indeed not wearing anything under her own dressing-gown, and Harry soon finds himself naked on the bed with her without being sure how he got there, nor caring overmuch. She feels warm and soft under his hands, her body pliant against his as he lightly kisses his way down her neck, savouring the feeling of her rapid pulse against his lips. She rolls over on her back, pulling him with her, but when he leans in to kiss her, she turns her head away and closes her eyes.

Harry freezes as he suddenly understands what this is really about, and a wave of cold fury rises in his chest. After all these months of learning to live with each other, tolerate each other and slowly starting to appreciate each other's company, she has the gall to act like she's _servicing_ him, like she's obliged to do him a favour to even the odds between them.

He's sorely tempted to get up and leave, but then another idea flashes through his mind, and he is angry enough now to go with it. Pansy's eyes fly open when he slides down her body; she pushes herself up on her elbows and hisses, "What are you –"

"Shut up," Harry snaps back and forces her legs apart, and his mouth is on her before she even realises what he's about to do. Pansy draws in a sharp breath and stiffens, the muscles of her thighs clenching under his hands, but Harry barely notices; he's too busy concentrating on what he's doing. He knows he's good at this, thanks to Cho's frequent and completely unabashed instructions, and he's determined to _make_ Pansy enjoy it, whether she wants it or not. There's something wrong with this reasoning, but he doesn't think about it; all he knows is that he'll be damned if he allows her to keep up the charade of lying back and thinking of England just so she can pretend she's only doing this for his sake.

Pansy is clearly struggling to keep up the detached behaviour, but she doesn't quite manage it once Harry has begun in earnest. He listens for that first little sigh that tells him he's got past her defences, and it comes soon enough and causes him to double his efforts, lips, tongue and fingers working furiously until Pansy's breathing becomes laboured. He doesn't look up at her face, but from the sound of it, she's biting her lip to keep herself from making any noises. She can't keep her body from reacting to what he's doing to her, though, and Harry keeps at it until her muscles tighten and spasm under his touch and she gasps out something – a name that isn't his...

Harry's head jerks up at this; she has her head thrown back, and her breasts are rising and falling with each rapid breath. He was fully resolved to get up and leave her like this, sweaty and panting and completely undone, but he's almost painfully hard now, and although the cold fury hasn't abated in the slightest, he can't bring himself to tear himself away from her.

As if she were reading his mind, Pansy settles the matter for him by grabbing his shoulders so hard that her nails dig into his skin and yanking him on top of her. She hooks her heels behind his calves and pulls, her hips snapping up towards his as he pushes into her. It's hard and fast and furious; Harry is past caring whether he's hurting her or not, but if he is, she doesn't give any indication of it. She moves with him, meeting his thrusts; she's biting her lower lip again as if it were utterly important to remain quiet. Harry is getting close, but he holds back with all his might until he feels her body arch up under him and hears the choked, breathless moan she can't suppress. Only then does he let go, heat rushing through him as he thrusts into her one last time and then stills.

He pulls back immediately, gets up from the bed and turns away without even looking at Pansy again. She doesn't say anything, and neither does he; he merely puts on his dressing-gown and walks out of the room.

  
* * *

  
He sleeps like the dead that night, but his sleep is troubled by dreams that are more vivid than anything he has experienced in a long time. He wakes at the crack of dawn, covered in sweat and dimly aware that he must have kicked the covers aside during the night since he feels the morning air like a cool breeze on his naked body. Harry keeps his eyes closed; his mind is still hazy with the remnants of his dreams – there were hands all over him, and he can still feel their touch on his skin, as if –

Only then does he realise that this is no longer part of a dream, that there are indeed hands on his body, pressing him into the mattress and holding him firmly in place. Harry's eyes snap open at this, and there's Pansy, looking strangely girly in pink pyjamas with her dark hair tied into a ponytail, kneeling over his legs with her hands on his hips. Harry becomes acutely aware of his morning erection right in her line of vision, and although it's probably stupid given the events of the previous evening, he feels himself flush with embarrassment.

"Pansy, what –" He falls silent when he notices the expression on her face; he doesn't think he has ever seen her look downright dangerous before.

"Two can play that game, Potter," is all she says, and then her mouth is on him.

Harry hears himself groan before his mind has even fully caught on with what is happening, and he feels his throat constrict at the familiarity of the sudden sensations. There can be no doubt where she learned this, who taught her all the wicked things to do with one's tongue and lips that he himself was so good at. Harry's eyes close almost on their own accord; there's no fighting this, it's dragging him right into the memories he has hidden from for so long, and suddenly it's no longer Pansy's mouth that makes him moan and gasp and tremble – it's Draco, hell-bent on making Harry lose his mind like he has done on so many occasions, each of them fresh in Harry's memory as if it had happened only yesterday. Harry bites down hard on the knuckles of his hand to keep his composure, knowing that he mustn't let go – it will be over the moment he does, and he doesn't want to let everything he has been longing for so desperately slip out of his grasp so quickly again.

He can't help it, though, can't fight the tension building up inside him, and then white-hot lights explode behind his eyelids, and Harry cries out as the searing heat washes over him, leaving him panting and shivering in the cool morning air that causes goosebumps to rise on his damp skin.

His heart is hammering in his chest, and there doesn't seem to be enough air in the room because it's suddenly difficult to breathe. Only when he hears the door slam does he open his eyes to realise that he's alone.

  
* * *

  
Harry isn't sure how he expected Pansy to react to the events of the night, but the one thing he definitely wasn't prepared for was perfectly normal behaviour.

Pansy acts as if nothing had happened at all; she makes idle conversation at breakfast, neither avoiding his gaze, nor giving him any meaningful looks. When Harry returns in the evening after a spectacularly unproductive day at work because his mind kept wandering, she's just like always at the dinner table, and even though she doesn't join Harry when he carries Lucia into the living room to play with her for a while before Mim takes her to bed, there seems to be nothing amiss between them, as if they hadn't been fighting out a very dirty power struggle in each other's beds just a few hours earlier.

Harry feels restless and jumpy when he finally retires to his bedroom; there's no way he'll be able to sleep now, and after a while of turning things over in his mind again and again (which doesn't lead him anywhere), he decides he's had enough.

Pansy has made her point about how things are done the Slytherin way, but now it's time for him to remember he's a Gryffindor.

She opens her bedroom door when he knocks and arches an eyebrow at him, clearly daring him to come up with a convincing explanation what he's doing here again tonight. Harry, however, has no intention to keep dancing around the issue.

He does his best to keep his voice as even as possible; he wants to come across as neither arrogant nor apologetic. "I'm sick of the power games, Pansy. I'm here because I'd like to sleep with you. Truce?"

Pansy doesn't say anything. She just looks at him for a moment with her eyebrow still raised; then she steps back from the door and gestures for Harry to come inside.


	7. Chapter 7

**From the Ashes  
Part Six**

by Fourth Rose

  
_Where are the songs of spring? Ay, where are they?  
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too –  
While barred clouds bloom in the soft-dying day,  
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue._

_(John Keats, To Autumn)_

  
* * *

  
To his own surprise, Harry has come to realise that he likes the sound of Pansy's laughter. It's loud and shrill, completely un-ladylike and probably got her told off by her mother when she was a child, but he's grown quite fond of it. Since he found out that she's incredibly ticklish, it has become his favourite kind of foreplay to tickle her mercilessly until she's shrieking with laughter and squirming in his grip and then pin her to the bed and kiss her quiet. Pansy doesn't seem to mind.

She, on the other hand, has surprised Harry by developing an interest in his ever-tense neck muscles. After watching him roll his aching shoulders for the fiftieth time after a long day at the Ministry one evening, she turned up in his bedroom with a bottle of an oily potion that smelled faintly of cinnamon and nutmeg, pushed him onto the bed and gave him a vicious backrub that hurt like hell, but left him blissfully boneless and more relaxed than he'd been in years. It has quickly turned into a regular practice that almost inevitably leads to sex afterwards – in fact, Harry can't help it that by now, the mere scent of cinnamon and nutmeg is enough to make him hard. He hopes fervently that Pansy won't ever come across a mention of Pavlov's dog because he'd never hear the end of it.

If, Harry muses, someone had told him at his wedding that he would one day enjoy sleeping with Pansy Parkinson, he'd have advised them to have their head examined. Yet, he can't deny that he does enjoy the nights when she'll leave her bedroom door unlocked or open his without bothering to knock, and judging by Pansy's behaviour, she seems quite satisfied with the arrangement as well. The only thing that troubles Harry is the fact that he's reduced to presuming what she might actually like and trying to interpret her reactions because she won't discuss the topic.

"For heaven's sake, Pansy, this is not a guessing game!" he says one night, his exasperation getting the better of him. "Why don't you just tell me what you really want?"

"Because neither of us can give the other what we really want," she answers matter-of-factly, and Harry feels as if a bucket of cold water has been emptied over him. Pansy turns away, pulls the covers over her bare shoulders and doesn't move when he gets up and leaves quietly.

It takes two weeks before he knocks on her door again and then another three nights before she opens it. She doesn't ask him to enter, though, but sticks her head out and snaps, "I'm sick of it, Potter. Go away and leave me in peace."

She is apparently expecting a scathing comeback, but Harry just replies with forced calm, "If that's what you want, Pansy," and goes back to his own bedroom where he lies down and closes his eyes, but doesn't extinguish the candles on his bedside table because he can't help feeling that this confrontation isn't over yet.

He doesn't move when he finally hears the door open and soft steps approach his bed. Only when the mattress dips from the weight of someone sitting down beside him, Harry opens his eyes. Pansy has her arms wrapped around her chest as if she were freezing in spite of the thick velvet dressing-gown she's wearing; she looks oddly frail in the flickering light of the candles.

All she says after a while is, "I'm sorry."

Harry shakes his head. "There must be something wrong with my hearing. I could swear that I just heard you say that you're sorry."

Pansy jumps to her feet, her eyes flashing angrily. "I did, Potter, but obviously it was a mistake. Good night."

"No, wait!" Harry grabs her arm before she can turn away and pulls her back onto the bed. "I apologise. I didn't mean to be -"

"- an arrogant bastard?" she suggests crossly.

"- impolite," Harry finishes without missing a beat. "I was just rather – well, surprised, to be honest. What are you sorry for? Don't tell me it's for denying me my marital rights for two weeks."

"I'm sorry because this is not how things were supposed to be," Pansy answers without looking at him. "I won't deny that I – that I've got used to you, irritating Gryffindor that you are. But I'm sick of pretending, and I… I just can't do this anymore."

Slowly, Harry raises a hand and turns her face towards him. "Pretending what?"

She still refuses to meet his eyes and remains stubbornly silent.

"Pretending that you don't wish it was him who's touching you instead of me every time we're together? You don't have to, Pansy, at least not for my sake, because I know about it. You say his name more often than mine when you're sleeping with me, after all."

At long last, she looks at him, though her expression is unreadable. "So do you, Harry."

For a while, there's silence.

Harry's voice is rough when he finally whispers, "I wasn't aware of that."

Pansy nods. "Seems we're both not very good at fooling each other."

"Perhaps we should stop trying and concentrate on what we have, then?"

"And what, exactly, would you say it is that we have – apart from an agreement to raise his daughter together?"

Harry takes a deep breath. "Pansy, listen to me. I'm unlikely to develop either burning passion or everlasting love for you – but I think I'm getting used to you, too. To all this," a vague gesture includes both them and their surroundings, "and everything else that's ours. It's" – he hesitates, desperately searching for the right word – "comfortable. I'm comfortable with you, I mean."

He isn't entirely happy with the sound of this statement, but he can't think of a better way to express what he's feeling. "I'm sorry if it isn't much of a compliment."

Pansy seems lost in thought; there's that curious half-smile in the left corner of her mouth when she asks, "Have I ever told you about Draco's reaction to our betrothal?"

Harry shakes his head in astonishment. "I didn't even know you were officially betrothed."

"Oh, it was nothing official yet, just an informal agreement between Lucius Malfoy and my father during our fourth year. The actual engagement was planned for the summer after we'd finished school, but by then, of course, it had all become obsolete due to the war."

She pauses for a moment, then continues, "I got the letter from my parents the next day during breakfast. Draco had skipped breakfast, so there was no opportunity to talk to him right then. Later on the same day, I was in the library when he came in with Blaise. They were talking without noticing me, and I overheard them mentioning the agreement. Blaise needled Draco if it was true that he was supposed to marry me, and when Draco said it was, Blaise asked him how he felt about it."

Harry finds himself picturing the scene: Zabini, eyes wide with curiosity, dark head bent together with Draco's white-blond one, whispering his questions – and Pansy, pug-faced and scowling, holding her breath behind a bookshelf and desperate to hear what Draco's answer was going to be. "What did he say?"

"He shrugged and said 'I'm content with it, I suppose'."

Harry blinks in surprise. Pansy's smile grows wider. "You see, I'd known Draco Malfoy since we were both toddlers. I knew who he was, and I knew _how_ he was, too. I thought then – and I still think now – that even if I lived for a hundred and fifty years, that sentence would remain the most sincere and meaningful compliment I had ever received in my life."

Only now she's looking at Harry again. "Therefore, as my understanding of compliments goes, yours probably wasn't so bad either."

There's an odd lump in Harry's throat all of a sudden; he has to swallow twice before he trusts his voice to obey him again. "Do you think it will be enough, then?"

"It will have to be, for there isn't more, I'm afraid."

"It's better than what we started with, though, don't you think?"

"So it would seem," she answers slowly. "Still, are you really sure there's room for three in this bed?"

Now it's Harry's turn to smile. "Any bed that's big enough for you and me will have room for three, Pansy." He throws back the covers invitingly. "Care to stay for a while?"

She shrugs a little bit too nonchalantly; it doesn't match the warmth in her eyes. "Since I'm already here, I might as well." Her smile turns suggestive. "How about another backrub?"

Harry, grinning, answers with a theatrical groan. "Damn you for knowing all my weaknesses, woman!"

"I'll get the potion ready. Don't start without me, Potter, do you hear me?"

"Pansy, wait!" When she turns back, there's a trace of embarrassment in Harry's grin. "Would you mind switching to sandalwood scent or something? For decency's sake I'd rather not be turned on by the smell of gingerbread next Christmas."

He listens to her giggles echoing in the corridor when he slumps back onto the bed with a soft sigh.

Comfortable. It's not a bad thing to be, after all.

  
* * *

  
"No, sweetie, keep your fingers away from Daddy's – ack!"

Feeding soldiers to a toddler, Harry knows by now, is an act that would require at least three hands to come out of it unscathed – one hand to hold her on his lap, one to feed her, and one to keep her from smearing every surface within her reach with strawberry jam.

Pansy has her wand lying next to her plate; from time to time, she waves it in his direction to banish the worst of the mess. If he had a fourth hand, Harry muses while he shoves another slice of jam-covered toast into Lucia's mouth, carefully avoiding her sharp little teeth, he might even be able to do the clean-up himself, too.

Mim is hovering in the background, clearly disapproving of Harry's insistence to feed Lucia himself, but Harry doesn't care; it's rare enough that he has time for a lazy Sunday breakfast with Lucia and Pansy, and he's determined to enjoy it while he can. Lucia is growing so fast; it's probably just a matter of months until she'll be able to eat by herself and won't need his help any more.

Pansy watches them with an amused expression. "My mother says you're spoiling her rotten."

Harry merely shrugs and dodges Lucia's hand that is aimed for his glasses. He learned the hard way that glasses are a small child's best friends; ever since Lucia was able to reach out and grab things, Harry's glasses have been among her favourite targets. They're swathed in Unbreakable Charms, but unfortunately, Anti-smearing Charms weren't designed to protect against attackers armed with jam.

"She told me that your father spoiled you just the same way, so I suppose the worst that can happen is that she turns out like you."

The corner of Pansy's mouth quirks up at this. "I'm quite surprised you're willing to risk that."

Harry holds her gaze for a moment and can't help grinning at her. "At least I'll know what I'm up against, won't I?"

"'Nother!" Lucia says imperiously, and Harry quickly reaches for another piece of toast while Pansy turns back to her own breakfast.

While Lucia is munching her toast, Harry says nonchalantly, "I had a meeting with an old friend of yours at work yesterday."

Pansy looks up from her porridge and raises an eyebrow. "I wasn't aware there were old friends of mine at the Ministry."

"Really? You seemed rather friendly with Dolores Umbridge back in our fifth year, if I remember correctly."

"Umbridge?" Pansy snorts in a rather un-ladylike fashion. "God, I'd almost forgotten her. Don't tell me you really believe we liked her? She was a very useful idiot, but that woman was _vile_."

"Yes, I remember hearing Draco use those same words to describe her," Harry admits, "however, she's still at the Ministry. Fudge's downfall cost her her career, and she hasn't been able to get anywhere near her former position ever since Scrimgeour took over – she was handed from department to department because nobody wanted to keep her."

"Don't tell me Scrimgeour assigned her to your department now?" Pansy asks incredulously. "He wouldn't do you a favour like that, would he?"

"Definitely not," Harry agrees with a grim smile, "but Percy would."

After a moment of stunned silence, Pansy bursts into giggles. "I always said he should have been in Slytherin. How –"

"It seems she approached him, the stupid cow." Harry recalls Percy's appalled expression when he spoke about it, and he remembers feeling almost sorry for Umbridge then – embarrassing Percy by reminding him of the unwavering belief in the wisdom and righteousness of the Ministry he had possessed in his teen years was a _huge_ mistake to make. "Tried to suck up to him by pointing out how well they'd worked together before the war, can you believe it?"

Pansy shakes her head. "Yes, because Percy loves nothing better than being reminded what a naïve fool he used to be. I knew the woman was stupid, but it seems I still gave her too much credit. What did she want from him?"

"A better job, obviously. Someone with a nasty sense of humour had assigned her to the Centaur Liaison Office in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures."

Pansy laughs outright at this, and Lucia joins in with a delighted squeal, spraying Harry with bread crumbs in the process. "He sent her to you? And she _accepted_?"

Harry smirks. "By the time he informed her that I was waiting for her to show up in my office immediately, she had little choice in the matter."

He knows he shouldn't have enjoyed the talk with Umbridge so much, but he can't fool himself – he loved every minute of it. He's fully aware that he was giving in to his basest instincts there, but he honestly doesn't care overmuch. The memory of Umbridge squirming in her chair, her bulging eyes fixed on his right hand whenever he pushed his glasses up his nose – and he made sure to do so constantly – is something he will treasure to his dying day. It turned the faded marks on the back of his hand from a symbol of humiliation into a reminder of sweet revenge.

"And?" Pansy sounds impatient. "What did you do with her?"

Harry prevents another jammy attack on his face just in time before he answers. "Oh, nothing much. I assigned her a desk job where she can't do any harm, and I was quite friendly with her – I even told her I would take a personal interest in the way she carried out her work, and that she could rest assured I would take care of every problem she might encounter."

Pansy's face is shining with unholy glee. "In other words, she'll spend the rest of her days at the Ministry looking over her shoulder and wondering what you're going to do to her if she so much as blinks. _Nicely_ done, Potter."

Harry gives her a mock half-bow which causes Lucia to make another futile grab for his glasses. "I admit, it was quite entertaining. Especially the part when I commended her on the groundwork she has laid for my current position, now that _I_ am the one trying to strengthen the ties between Hogwarts and the Ministry. I took great care to mention that if it hadn't been for Educational Decree 22, I would never have been able to appoint Remus Lupin as the new Defence professor."

Pansy rolls her eyes. Harry knows how deeply anti-werewolf prejudices are ingrained in the minds of most purebloods, and he appreciates it that she never said anything about the matter during the long and difficult process of securing the job for Remus. "Please, Potter, as if there had been any need to invoke decrees – McGonagall all but kissed your feet when you said you'd find a way to get past the anti-werewolf restrictions so that she could hire him!"

"Yes, but Umbridge doesn't know that, does she?"

Pansy cocks her head to the side. "You really are full of surprises sometimes. _Un plat qui se mange froid_, huh?"

Harry gives her a blank look. "Beg pardon?"

Pansy sighs. "French proverb, Potter. _La vengeance est un plat qui se mange froid._ Revenge is a dish best served cold."

"There's something to be said for that." Harry crams the last bite of toast into Lucia's mouth and shoves the plate away before she can try to play with it. "I had the impression that she didn't expect such a... Slytherin reaction from me, though. Didn't quite know what to do with herself."

"She should consider herself lucky," Pansy replies with a shrug. "If you had reacted like a typical Gryffindor, she'd have left your office on all fours covered in boils and sprouting tentacles."

Harry shoots her a glare, whose effect is somewhat hampered by the fact that Lucia chooses this very moment to plant another sticky red handprint on his glasses. She lets out a delighted squeal, and her smile that looks so much like her father's drives Dolores Umbridge from Harry's mind in an instant.

  
* * *

  
"Up, Daddy, up!"

Lucia gesticulates for Harry to levitate her higher so that she can hang the glittering bauble in her hand on a branch right at the top of the tree. Harry smiles and nudges her upwards a little bit more; he's constantly amazed how much she loves being up in the air, and he's very much looking forward to seeing her face when she unwraps the toy broom he bought her for Christmas. They're decorating the tree together as a birthday treat for her, since her birthday is so close to the Christmas holidays that there's not much time to celebrate it in its own right.

Once the bauble is securely in place, Harry lets go of the Levitation Charm and catches Lucia as she falls. This is a trick Pansy taught him – he'd never even have thought of trying it for fear of hurting the little girl, but he was quickly convinced once he saw how much she loves it. She lets out a thrilled shriek and wraps her arms around his neck, her fine dark curls tickling his cheek. "Again!"

Harry is about to cast another Levitation Charm when the door opens. He turns around with Lucia in his arms to see Pansy standing in the doorway, a piece of parchment in her hand and a strange look on her face. Lucia struggles to be let down and runs towards her as soon as her feet touch the ground, excitedly pointing at the tree. "Mummy, look!"

Pansy smiles at her, although the smile doesn't reach her eyes. "That's very nice, sweetie. Do you want Mummy to help you decorating now?"

"Mummy _and_ Daddy," Lucia says empathically, and Harry bites back a grin; it's rare for her not to ask for everything whenever she's faced with a choice. She knows by now she won't always get her way, but she never stops trying.

Pansy shakes her head. "I'm sure Daddy would love to keep decorating with us, but I'm afraid he has to leave now." Before Harry can ask the obvious question, she hands him the parchment. "Your secretary just sent this via Floo," she says in a completely different, businesslike tone. "There's an emergency meeting of the board of school governors at Hogwarts. McGonagall is dead."

Her expression softens a bit when he stares at her, completely stunned. "For what it's worth, Harry, I'm sorry. You'd better get ready immediately, they're waiting for you."

  
* * *

  
It's almost midnight when Harry returns to find Pansy waiting up for him in the living room. He slumps into the armchair next to the fireplace, takes off his glasses and rubs his burning eyes.

Pansy gets up to pour him a glass of Firewhisky before she sits down across from him again. Harry nods his thanks and takes a sip, enjoying the fiery warmth that spreads through him and drives out the lingering chill of the draughty Hogwarts corridors. Has it really ever been that cold there while he was a student?

"Well?" she says at last when Harry keeps silently staring into the fire. There's no impatience in her tone, but it's clear she's waiting for him to tell her what happened.

Harry sighs. "Madam Pomfrey and the healer they called from St Mungo's agree that she died peacefully, in her sleep."

Pansy lifts an eyebrow. "She wasn't that old."

"She wasn't old at all, but the last years were very hard on her. At our last meeting" – Harry has to pause for a moment to prevent his voice from cracking – "she admitted that it was all getting a bit much for her, that she felt weak and exhausted. She wouldn't hear of retirement, though; she said the school was her life, and that she couldn't imagine ever leaving it."

"When is the funeral?"

"Day after tomorrow. She left instructions in her will: a quiet ceremony, just for the students and a few other people with close ties the school – no official representatives, and no speeches. She didn't specify a location, so we'll bury her on the school grounds beside Dumbledore's grave. I'm sure she would have liked that."

Pansy nods; she seems deep in thought. "And then? She never appointed a Deputy Headmaster, did she?"

Harry shakes his head. "She said she wasn't prepared to make such a far-reaching decision while things were still getting settled at the school. That means the new Headmaster or Headmistress will be chosen by the board of governors."

"The election is scheduled already, too?"

"It'll be held right after the funeral, since all the governors are probably going to be there anyway."

"That's not much time to prepare."

Harry shrugs. "There aren't that many preparations to make. Winston Tofty has been on the board of governors for almost eighty years and knows the proceedings by heart. The Headmaster or Headmistress is usually chosen from the four Heads of Houses, unless another teacher applies for the position."

"Is that likely?"

"None of them are going to apply. Professor Sinistra told me that they all want a quick and smooth election so that the running of the school won't be disrupted."

"How very commendable." There's a strange edge in Pansy's voice, and she won't meet his eyes when he gives her a quizzical look. "I suppose you have already decided who is going to get your vote?"

"I've been thinking about it." Harry _really_ wishes she would look at him. "As a matter of fact, I could do with a bit of advice."

She does a visible double-take at this. "You want _my_ advice on the choosing of McGonagall's successor?"

"Why do you sound so surprised? You know that I trust your political instinct."

Her eyebrows recede almost up to her hairline. "You mean you'll treat this as a political matter? Potter, when did you grow up without me noticing it?"

Harry closes his eyes for a moment. "Pansy, I'm not in the mood for this right now."

"Right. Let's take a look at the possibilities, then." Pansy seems to tick off names from an invisible list. "Voting goes by age, doesn't it? That means the first few votes will set the tone, the last ones might tip the balance."

"Or their vote might make no difference at all because there's a clear majority already."

"Well, that's democracy for you. So, first to go is old Tofty, who was a lifelong friend of Dumbledore. He'll probably vote for the Gryffindor candidate, unless he's wary of werewolves – in that case, I suppose he's most likely to vote for Flitwick. Elladora Yaxley is a Slytherin to the bone, she's going to vote for Snape for sure. Who's next?"

Harry, who doesn't have Pansy's ability to keep hundreds of names and family backgrounds straight, thinks for a moment. "Either Wulfstan MacGraw or Carl Bones, I'm not sure."

"MacGraw is as much a Gryffindor as Yaxley is a Slytherin, so that's a vote for Lupin. The Bones have been Hufflepuffs since the dawn of time, therefore he should vote for Sprout, although I can see him vote for Lupin as well. Then there's that other Hufflepuff, Waldemar Burke – he has always kept out of politics, so I don't think he'll vote for Lupin or Snape since either could be interpreted as a political statement."

Harry shakes his head. "How do you remember all this?"

Pansy gives him a superior look. "Breeding and practice, Potter. Who – ah, yes, Isabella Hitchens should be next. One of her ancestors was a Black who got disinherited because she married a Muggle. She herself is a half-blood and a Ravenclaw – I'd say Flitwick for sure. Hestia Gamp will probably vote for Snape, and Michael Dippet for Lupin – although one of his ancestors, who was Headmaster himself, was a Ravenclaw, so he could choose Flitwick too. Arnold McMillan is a Hufflepuff, although most of his relatives are Slytherins – Sprout, I'd say, although he might vote for Snape too since Snape saved his son's life during a mission for the Order."

By now, Harry's head is spinning, but Pansy almost looks like she's enjoying this. Once again, Harry can't help comparing her to Hermione as he remembers her from their time at school.

"Livius Rosier's immediate family was among the neutrals, and he has always been desperate to distance himself from his Death Eater relatives; that's why he got the position when Lucius Malfoy was removed from the board. There's no way he'll vote for Snape – Flitwick, perhaps, since Rosier's grandmother was half-goblin like Flitwick's mother, but I think he'll vote for Lupin. And finally Calliope Flint – a Slytherin family who was careful never to be associated with the Dark Arts. She might just vote for Snape, but I doubt it – Flitwick is more likely, I'd say."

She takes a deep breath. "Where does that leave us?"

Harry sighs. "Judging from what you just told me, I'd say the most accurate prediction is: Anything can happen. Which is pretty much what I thought before."

Pansy makes a face. "Well, I'm glad I could be of help. Is there anything else you already know that you want me to tell you about?" When Harry doesn't take the bait, she adds in a calmer tone, "What does it matter, anyway? We both know who your vote will go to. You're the youngest member of the board, you might even be the one to make the final decision."

"So you're all right with me voting for Remus?"

Pansy's surprise is obvious. "Why on earth should you care about that?"

Harry holds her gaze as calmly as he can manage. "Let's pretend I _do_ care, shall we?"

"Fine." Pansy leans back in her chair and crosses her arms over her chest. "I think you're making a huge mistake."

"Why am I not surprised." Harry is tempted to mirror her posture and finally settles for folding his hands in his lap. "So I shouldn't vote for Lupin. Is that because he's a Gryffindor, or because he's a werewolf?"

"Both," Pansy replies with astounding honesty. "The last two Headmasters have been Gryffindors, and it's never a good thing if one house becomes too dominant, especially now that its main rival has been reduced to the status of the underdog. But Lupin is more than just a Gryffindor – he was a prominent member of the Order and a close associate of Dumbledore. That means his political affiliations are extremely obvious, and that's bound to alienate all those who don't identify with them. Then, of course, there's the werewolf thing."

She holds up a hand to cut off Harry's protest before he even gets a word in. "Spare me the lecture, Potter. I know that he's a good teacher, and I also know that he's harmless, and that it's irrational to hold a condition which is not his fault against him. I still can't help it that the idea of a werewolf teaching my daughter makes my skin crawl, and you can be sure that many others will feel the same way _without_ trying to be rational about it. You weathered the uproar you caused when you gave him the Defence post, but I assure you that was nothing compared to what will happen if he becomes Headmaster. You were able to survive one Lupin-related scandal thanks to your popularity, but I'm not sure your reputation can take another so soon. You must do what you think is right, Harry, but please think carefully whether it's worth risking everything you've accomplished so far."

Harry is loath to admit it, but she is voicing concerns that he has silently been pondering himself. The part of him who will always remain a rebellious teenager wants nothing more than to tell all those narrow-minded bigots to go fuck themselves and make Remus Headmaster because it's the right thing to do. However, his teenage years are long past, and even though he isn't even thirty yet, he feels as if there's very little left of the angry, reckless boy he was at the time. Back then, he felt the weight of the world on his shoulders, and he'd never have thought of treading carefully because of it; now it's a little girl's future he's balancing in his hands, and it has taught him to think twice about every step he takes.

"I'll think about it."

Pansy rises from her chair and bends over him to give him the quick good-night peck on the cheek that has become their customary signal that there won't be any bedroom visits that night.

"You do that."

  
* * *

  
Harry didn't expect the election of a new Hogwarts Headmaster or Headmistress to be quite so public.

There must be at least five hundred people crammed into the Great Hall – current and former students, teachers, parents, Ministry employees, and reporters, all dressed in deepest black, are filling every last spot in the hall that isn't taken up by the huge table in the middle around which the members of the board of governors are seated. The four candidates for the post are sitting at the staff table, the huge hourglasses that usually keep count of house points suspended in mid-air above their heads. They will keep count of the votes as soon as the Ministry representative who is in charge of the proceedings asks each of the board members to announce their choice.

The mood is sombre, which is hardly surprising right after a funeral; it seems as if the weather wanted to add to the gloomy atmosphere, because the enchanted ceiling is covered in thick, dark clouds that promise snow later in the day. Harry thinks it's oddly fitting for a day like this; he remembers Dumbledore's funeral, where he felt the summer day was mocking the mourners with its brilliant beauty. McGonagall's grave will be covered with snow before nightfall, and by then, she will hopefully have a successor she would have been happy with.

Harry feels deathly tired and strangely restless at the same time; he has hardly slept last night, but even after hours and hours of debating with himself, he still hasn't come to a decision. Since he is the last to cast his vote, he can afford to wait and see what happens, and there's a part of him that hopes the decision will be taken out of his hands by the other board members who vote before him.

The one thing that brings a small, satisfied smile to his face is the fact that Minister Scrimgeour claimed he was unable to attend and sent Percy in his stead to oversee the election. Scrimgeour probably considers the obvious snub a posthumous punishment for McGonagall who denied him the opportunity to give a speech at her funeral, but Harry is quite sure the only one who's made to look bad by his absence is Scrimgeour himself. Percy, on the other hand, has been handed an opportunity to move into the spotlight that may prove very helpful in the long run, and the look he gave Harry before he stepped between the candidates and the board of governors indicated that he's very aware of it.

He seems much calmer than Harry feels and makes it through his opening speech without faltering. The candidates don't get to speak; the board members have agreed beforehand to keep the ceremony as short as possible, and since they all know the four Heads of Houses and their backgrounds, there is no need for introductions of any kind.

A hush falls over the Great Hall when Percy raises his wand and points it at the empty hourglasses, which glow silver for a moment. "I will now ask each member of the board of governors to give their vote to the candidate they consider most worthy of the post of Headmaster or Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Professor Winston Tofty, please cast your vote."

The old man who's sitting at the table right across from Harry rises with some difficulty and announces with a surprisingly clear voice, "I vote for Remus Lupin."

A murmur goes through the hall; the hourglass over Remus' head glows red for a moment before a single, ruby-coloured stone drops into the lower half. Harry watches him out of the corner of his eyes, but Remus' expression remains unchanged.

Percy silences the whispering spectators with a stern look before he continues. "Mrs Elladora Yaxley, please cast your vote."

The witch beside Professor Tofty looks just as old and frail as he is, but she swiftly gets to her feet and declares, "I vote for Severus Snape." This doesn't come as a surprise to anyone, so the crowd remains quiet, although Harry can see plenty of dark looks all around. Snape's name has been cleared, but there are many who have neither forgotten about his past nor forgiven him for it. If Snape is aware of it, he doesn't give any indication; his expression remains cold as the emerald-coloured stone drops in the hourglass above his head.

"Mr Carl Bones, please cast your vote."

Mr Bones bows slightly in the direction of the staff table when he answers, "I vote for Pomona Sprout." Professor Sprout doesn't seem too pleased about this; to Harry, it looks as if she didn't have the slightest desire to become Headmistress.

"Mr Wulfstan MacGraw, please cast your vote." McGraw's vote puts Remus in the lead again.

The first real surprise is Waldemar Burke's vote for Flitwick. Everyone had Burke down for either Snape or Lupin, and Harry realises he's not the only one who considers the choosing of Flitwick a compromise that both of the most prominent rivalling fractions might be able to live with.

Former Ravenclaw Isabella Hitchens seems to think otherwise, since she chooses Snape over Flitwick. Michael Dippet and Hestia Gamp, however, seem to have stronger House loyalties and vote for Lupin and Snape respectively. With only four more voters to go, Lupin and Snape are tied in first place with three votes each now. It's obvious that it will be one of them in the end, and Harry isn't surprised at all when neither Arnold McMillan nor Livius Rosier waste their votes on the runners-up. McMillan's vote for Snape and Rosier's for Lupin lead to another tie between the Heads of Gryffindor and Slytherin, and the crowd is beginning to whisper excitedly once more.

"Silence!" Percy bellows indignantly, reminding Harry of their school days for a second. "Mrs Calliope Flint, please cast your vote!"

Harry's thoughts are racing; he'll need to come to a decision within the next few seconds. Mrs Flint will undoubtedly vote for Snape, which leaves Harry two options – he can follow his heart and vote for Remus, which means that the election ends in a tie between Remus and Snape. By law, a tie leads to a run-off vote, which would give Remus another chance. Or Harry can admit defeat, demonstrate his willingness to find the middle ground by casting a useless vote for Flitwick, and live with the fact that Snape will become the next Headmaster.

It's an outcome he wouldn't have thought possible before the election; public clearance or no, Snape is far from being redeemed in the eyes of a big part of the wizarding population, and Harry honestly didn't expect that so many board members would have the balls to vote for him.

_Congratulations, Harry, it looks like your little campaign in favour of poor downtrodden Slytherin House was more successful than you realised._

By now, Harry is used to the fact that whenever his own thoughts decide to mock him, they inevitably end up sounding like Draco. He's far from being amused by this turn of events, but he still bites back a grim smile at the realisation that Draco would have loved to see him get bitten in the arse by his own oh-so-clever schemes.

Then Harry feels his insides turn to ice at the sound of Calliope Flint's voice.

"I vote for Filius Flitwick."

There is dead silence for a moment, which is broken by Mrs Yaxley murmuring (louder than she probably intended since she's a bit deaf) with a hint of disgust in her voice, "Well, that's it, then."  
Mrs Flint doesn't look at Harry when she sits down again beside him, and Harry suppresses the sudden urge to kick her under the table. Here's one who, for some reason, decided _not_to show her Slytherin colours when it really mattered, and her decision leaves Harry in a bigger dilemma than he anticipated. He's the only one left to vote now, and Pansy's prediction has actually come true: He is the one to make the final decision. Remus and Snape are tied at four votes each; Flitwick, at two votes, is out of the race.

For just a heartbeat, Harry considers chickening out and still voting for Flitwick, but he's too much a Gryffindor to go with that impulse. It's going to be either Remus or Snape, and the choice will be his and his alone.

_The weight of the world on your shoulders, Harry. Isn't that what you like best?_

All eyes are on him now; a deep hush falls over the crowd as Harry looks up to the staff table and tries to imagine Albus Dumbledore sitting there with his eyes twinkling down at him from behind his half-moon glasses. The choice between what's right and what's easy has never seemed more difficult, particularly since the times when Harry thought he always knew what was right are long past. These days, he has to live with the realisation that nothing is ever easy in the long run, and no choice can therefore ever be truly right either.

He thinks of Lucia, smiling at him with Draco's pale eyes shining in her tiny face, and of Pansy's carefully blank expression when she told him to think carefully about his choice. Dumbledore's tired old face flashes through his mind in a halo of green light, replaced by the image of Draco's body crumpled on the floor at Ron's feet.

"Mr Harry Potter, please cast your vote."

Harry rises slowly. His eyes are still on the staff table, where both Remus and Snape are staring straight ahead without meeting his gaze. The image that suddenly stands out clearly in his mind is that of an eleven-year old Draco on the Hogwarts Express, holding out his hand towards him. He'll never know whether it would have been for better or worse if he'd taken Draco's hand, but he realises that he needs to decide now whether he can muster up the same kind of nerve that Draco showed then.

He takes a deep breath and tries to channel the cool, detached tone that Draco always used during the war when he was trying to hide that he was worried or afraid.

"I vote for Severus Snape."

  
* * *

  
Harry steels himself when he sees Remus coming towards him. He has been able to avoid him for a while in the commotion that followed the election, but now Remus has him cornered, and Harry has no idea what to say to him.

Remus, however, doesn't even give him time to speak; he merely grabs him by the shoulders and says in a voice that's trembling with emotion, "Harry, I hope I don't come across as patronising, but I've never been prouder of you in my entire life."

For a moment, all that Harry can do is stare at him, taking in the haggard face that's lined with premature wrinkles and the hair that's completely grey now. Yet he can't remember a time when he has seen Remus' eyes shine as they do now, and the feeling of relief that washes over him is so intense that it makes his head spin.

"Remus, I'm sor-"

"Don't," Remus interrupts him sternly, "I don't want you to apologise for doing the right thing, especially since I know how hard it must have been for you."

"I hope you don't expect me to kiss your feet in return for your magnanimity, Potter," Snape's cold voice speaks up next to them, making both Harry and Remus jump. "In case you do, I assure you you'll be disappointed."

Harry straightens his shoulders and offers Snape his hand, who takes it out of sheer surprise. "My congratulations on your election, Headmaster. I'm sure you'll work tirelessly for the benefit of the _entire_ school." He lets go of Snape's hand when he adds, in a less formal tone, "Of course, I also promise you that there will be hell to pay if you don't."

Surprisingly, Snape's sour expression lightens a bit at this. "It's reassuring to know you're still the same arrogant bastard you always were, Potter."

"There are some things you can always count on, Headmaster." Harry gives Snape a smile that is all teeth. "In case I'm not available to kick your arse, you can always rely on Professor Lupin, who, as the runner-up in the election, will take over the position of Deputy Headmaster. I trust the two of you will cooperate smoothly."

Remus seems hard-pressed to bite back a snicker, and Harry is beginning to feel better. Snape gives him a strange look, as if he weren't sure what to make of him. "I must say I'm beginning to look forward to seeing your daughter among my students, Potter."

Harry notices how Remus stiffens at this remark that must sound like a threat to him, but Harry, who knows that Snape is perfectly aware whose daughter Lucia really is, recognises it as an expression of grudging respect that can't have come easily to the new Headmaster. He makes a mental note to tell Pansy that between the two of them, she and Draco eventually seem to have taught him to speak Slytherin.

  
* * *

  
"Mr Potter?"

When Harry turns around, he's faced with one of the young _Prophet_ reporters who usually cover the political topics. There are three or four of them, and Harry can never tell them apart; at least one of them seems to be around wherever he goes, but they all look the same to him.

"What can I do for you, Mr –"

"Abercrombie, Sir, Dorian Abercrombie from the _Daily Prophet_. I wanted to ask whether you'd agree to give me an interview about the school governors' most peculiar choice in the Headmaster election?"

"I'm the youngest member of the board of governors, Mr Abercrombie, I'm hardly qualified to speak for –"

"Please, Mr Potter, you're the Head of the Department of Magical Education, and it's well-known you and the new Headmaster were never friends, to put it mildly. I'm sure the public is dying to hear about your reasons for your astounding decision."

Harry sighs. "Fine, I'll give you your interview. There's just one condition," – he snaps his fingers, and the Quick-Quotes Quill hovering over the young man's notebook slides back into his pocket – "I will get to read your transcript before it's published, and you won't print anything I didn't approve first."

The reporter gasps. "You can't do that!"

A few years ago, Harry would have lost his temper at this point. Now he merely gives the young man a cool look (wishing he'd ever learned the trick of raising a single eyebrow) and replies calmly, "You'll find that I can, Mr Abercrombie. Write about me whatever you please, but if you want to quote my words, I'm going to make sure they're accurate. If you can't live with that, there will be no interview. Take it or leave it."

The young man looks extremely put out, but it's clear from his expression that he knows he has lost. "What about the freedom of the press?"

Harry merely shrugs. "What about it?"

The journalist deflates visibly, clearly giving in to the inevitable. "Would tomorrow, eight o'clock be a good time? I can come to your office, if you'd like."

"Fine. I'll see you tomorrow, then."

Harry watches the young man's retreat and fleetingly wonders when exactly he stopped thinking twice about wielding the power he has. He isn't sure whether it's a good or a bad thing that he did, but he supposes it's something that comes with the job sooner or later.

  
* * *

  
"How _could_ you, Harry?"

Harry, who is going over the CV of Snape's preferred candidate for the vacant Potions post, raises his head at the sound of the angry, familiar voice. "Hello to you too, Hermione."

"Mr Potter, I'm so sorry!" His secretary, a nervous young witch just out of Hogwarts, appears in the doorway behind Hermione with a flustered expression. "I told Miss Granger she needed an appointment, but –"

Harry holds up a placating hand. "It's fine, Isabel, don't worry. Just close the door and don't let anyone else in while Miss Granger is here, all right?"

There's a good chance Hermione is going to yell at him, and he doesn't need witnesses for that. She didn't announce her visit, but Harry expected her to show up sooner or later – sooner, in fact, given the magnitude of the issue at hand.

He's not particularly looking forward to the confrontation, but he can't help seeing it as a kind of test run for what is to come: If he can make Hermione understand his reasons, there's a chance he'll eventually convince everyone else who considers him a traitor, a madman, or both right now.

He offers Hermione a seat on the couch and sits down beside her; he doesn't want the barrier of his desk between them right now. There are bright red spots on her cheeks, and for a moment, he wonders whether she's about to slap him.

"Are you going to answer my question?"

"How could I vote for Snape, you mean?" Harry does his best to sound calm. "Hermione, is it really that difficult to understand why it was the only thing to do for me?"

"Well, I certainly don't understand it!" Her voice is shrill, as if she were trying very hard not to yell. "Unless you were worried that your wife would – "

"Leave Pansy out of this, please, she had nothing to do with it." Harry is still calm, but there's a clear warning in his tone.

Hermione looks away. "If you say so. But Harry, it was up to you to make sure Remus finally got some recognition, and you let him down! It would have been a huge step towards overcoming all those horrible prejudices about blood purity and dark creatures if a werewolf had been elected Headmaster of Hogwarts!"

"I _know_ that, Hermione. Don't you think I'd have loved to give Remus that position?"

Hermione frowns. "Then why didn't you – "

"This isn't about a campaign for equal rights," Harry interrupts her, "and as much as I may personally want to see Remus get what he deserves, it isn't about him or me, either. It's about the school, and the next generation of wizarding children."

"But _Snape_, Harry? Have you forgotten what he –"

"Forgotten?" Harry can't help it that he is finally getting louder, too. "You seriously believe I could ever forget? I was there, Hermione, I saw him kill Dumbledore, remember?" He pauses for a moment to regain his composure; the last thing he needs now is to lose his temper. "That's the reason why it was so important that _I_ made that choice, don't you see? Our world is still torn apart, split into different fractions who loathe and distrust each other. If we keep perpetuating that split by cementing things the way they were up to now at Hogwarts, with Slytherin House marginalized and despised by all the others, the next war is only a matter of time. I will detest Snape until my dying day, but I had to vote for him – I can't ask anyone else to take such a leap of faith if I'm unwilling to do it myself."

Hermione is biting her lip now, but Harry notices with some relief that the angry flush of her cheeks is receding. "I didn't quite think about it that way."

"It's what you once told us, remember? That all the Houses needed to stand together if we were to have a chance against Voldemort?"

Her shoulders slump, and Harry knows only too well she's thinking of Ron too now. "A lot has happened since then."

"Yes," he replies firmly. "We fought a war, and we eventually won it. That means it's over now, and we need to find a way to leave it behind us unless we want to keep fighting endlessly." He reaches for her hand, and she doesn't pull it away, even though her expression remains troubled. "Hermione, I have a little girl back home who I want to grow up in peace, without being taught to consider some of her classmates the enemy like our generation did. If that means I have to make public gestures of reconciliation towards the likes of Snape, I'll grit my teeth and do it. Is that so hard to accept?"

Hermione's face softens at this, and Harry feels a huge weight being lifted from him. "No, if you look at it like that, I suppose it isn't." She gives his hand a squeeze before she asks, "How is she doing?"

"Lucia?" Harry points at the array of photographs on his desk. "See for yourself. She's growing faster than you would believe, and she keeps both Pansy and me on our toes. You must come and visit us again soon."

Now she is finally smiling at him. "You know, Harry, it comes as a bit of a surprise, but being a father suits you."

Harry smiles back, almost giddy with relief. It's one of these precious moments when he's convinced things are really going to be all right one day, no matter how long it takes. "Tell you what, Hermione, it came as a bit of a surprise to me, too."


	8. Chapter 8

**From the Ashes  
Part Seven**

by Fourth Rose

  
_The old that is strong does not wither,_  
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.  
From the ashes, a fire shall be woken  
A light from the shadows shall spring...

_(J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord Of The Rings)_

  
* * *

  
Harry wakes immediately when there's a soft, tentative knock at his bedroom door; sleeping lightly is something he has practised to perfection during the war, and although he hoped he would never need that ability again, it comes in handy now that it turned out that Lucia is afraid of the dark.

When he opens the door, she's standing in the corridor clutching her teddy bear, her pale eyes huge and fearful in her sweet little face. Mim, a candle in his hand, is hovering beside her with an apologetic expression.

"Mim is most sorry, Sir, but Miss Lucia insisted that –"

"It's fine, Mim, I'll take care of it." Harry crouches to pick her up, and the fact that she doesn't protest tells him clearly how frightened she is – during the day, she hardly ever tolerates being carried any longer, claiming that she's a big girl of three and can walk by herself. Now, however, she clings to Harry and hides her face in his hair when he asks gently, "What's the matter, poppet?"

Unsurprisingly, her only answer is the whispered word, "Dark."

With a sigh, Harry carries her to his bed. She snuggles up to him when he lies down with her, her head pillowed on his arm and her hands still holding on to his pyjama jacket. Harry is relieved to see her face relax as he pulls the blanket up over her shoulders and smoothes her tangled curls.

"Did you have a bad dream?" He always dreads the answer, although Pansy and all her female relatives keep assuring him that nightmares are nothing unusual for a small child with a vivid imagination. Lucia just nods, and Harry sighs again and keeps stroking her hair until she falls asleep. She has never said what her dreams are about; she either can't describe them, or she doesn't want to talk about it. Never in his life has Harry wished more desperately that he'd managed to learn Legilimency, so that he could take a look into her thoughts and find out what she's afraid of. Pansy is no help in that regard; on the contrary, she flat-out refused to let anyone mess with her daughter's mind when he mentioned it. _Many children are afraid of the dark, Potter; she'll grow out of it as she gets older, so stop fretting._

On an intellectual level, Harry knows that she's right, but it still seems cold to him to just let the little girl suffer without trying to help her. Lucia is too young to understand the explanations that there's nothing to be afraid of in her room, even if it's dark in there. They tried letting the lamps burn the whole night, but she slept badly in a brightly lit room, and a single candle made things even worse because it cast huge, flickering shadows on the walls. Therefore, Pansy has decided to simply wait; she's convinced it's only a phase anyway, and besides, Mim is always in the nursery during the night to take care of her if she wakes up.

Harry has never mentioned it to Pansy, but he thinks it's hardly surprising that Lucia always comes to him when she's afraid if Pansy cares so little about her fears.

  
* * *

  
"Mum, Dad, look!"

Lucia waves at Harry and Pansy as she zooms around the rose bushes on her toy broomstick. Harry waves back, but Pansy frowns when her daughter narrowly avoids getting her robes tangled in the thorny branches. "That's very impressive, Lucia, but please stay on the grass and away from the roses, all right?"

Lucia pouts, but obediently steers her broom back to the open ground in front of the house.

Mr Parkinson chuckles and takes a sip from his iced gillywater. "She'll be back among the bushes the moment you look away, mark my words." Harry, who is sitting beside his father-in-law in the shadow of the huge old oak tree in the middle of the garden, grins at this. "Seen it before, have you?"

"Well, I did raise Pansy," Mr Parkinson reminds him, happily ignoring the dark look his daughter sends him. Mrs Parkinson, who is anxiously following Lucia with her eyes although the toy broom won't take her higher than a foot above the ground, just shakes her head and murmurs something under her breath.

Harry gives a soft, contented sigh and leans back in his seat, allowing himself to just enjoy the sunny, carefree Sunday afternoon for a moment. The following weekend will be stressful enough since Pansy is hosting a garden party in celebration of his birthday, and she seems to have invited half the wizarding population of England. Harry knows that he mustn't complain since his political career wouldn't be what it is today without her skills as a hostess, but he still doesn't even want to imagine what she'll come up with next year, when he'll turn thirty.

He must have dozed off for a moment because he's woken by a sharp jab in the ribs from Pansy's elbow. He's momentarily disoriented, but quickly focuses when he hears Mr Parkinson exclaim, "Minister, what a pleasure to see you!"

Percy, who is wearing a formal black robe in spite of the warm summer day, is already shaking Mr Parkinson's hand when Harry gets to his feet. "I hope you'll forgive me for intruding like this, but your elf said –"

"You know you're always welcome, Minister," Harry interrupts him with a grin, and Percy finally drops the formal act and grins back. He's perfectly aware that Harry is having him on by addressing him with his title, and he also knows _Harry_ knows how pleased he still is to hear it. It's been less than a month since Percy took office, and it's obvious he's still not quite used to being the second youngest Minister for Magic Britain ever had. "Have a seat and a drink, you look like you could do with both."

"I won't deny it," Percy admits with a sigh while he carefully lowers himself into the chair Harry conjured with a flick of his wand, "I've been at the Ministry since seven in the morning today."

"On a Sunday?" Mrs Parkinson clucks her tongue. "Your dedication is admirable, Minister, but you're being too hard on yourself."

"I'm afraid it can't be helped," Percy replies with dignity. "My predecessor left his post in – well, let me just say that there is still a lot of work to do until I've got his affairs in order. I'm lucky to have been around him for so long, otherwise I wouldn't even know where to begin!"

This is, of course, mostly due to the fact that Scrimgeour didn't expect that he'd have to vacate his post with so little warning, and judging from Pansy's smirk, she's thinking along the same lines. She doesn't say anything, though; instead she just asks, "How's Penny doing?"

Percy's expression changes completely; he's now genuinely smiling when he replies, "She's fine, thank you. We're counting the days."

"The baby is due next week, isn't it?"

"Yes," Percy answers with an even wider smile, "with a bit of luck, it might even share Harry's birthday. Although Penny and I would hate to miss your party, Harry."

Harry just grumbles something, which earns him another jab from Pansy. Meanwhile, Lucia has noticed Percy and comes flying towards him, expertly stopping her broom just in front of him. "Hello, Uncle Percy!"

"Lucia!" her grandmother admonishes her. "That's no way to address the Minister!"

"It's quite all right, Mrs Parkinson," Percy assures her magnanimously, "Lucia and I are old friends, aren't we?"

It still seems against every law of nature to Harry that Percy should be good with children. There can be no doubt that Lucia adores him, though, and Percy is equally taken with her.

"That was a very impressive bit of flying, Lucia. I never knew you could fly so well!"

"She's taking after her father," Pansy says with a small smile that only Harry really understands.

There are nods all around, and Percy asks, without realising that he's broaching a rather controversial topic, "Have you taken her flying yet, Harry?"

Harry and Pansy just groan, but Lucia cries immediately, "I really want to! But Dad says I'm too small!" When Percy, belatedly noticing his blunder, throws them an apologetic look, she quickly adds, "Can you tell Dad? He says you can tell people to do things!"

Pansy bursts out laughing at this, and against his better judgement, Harry can't help joining in. "Oh, there can be no doubt into which house you'll get sorted, poppet. Fine, I'll bow to the Minister's authority. _Accio_ Nimbus!"

Lucia looks as if Christmas had come early when the broomstick smacks into Harry's hand. If Percy is surprised to see Harry ride such an outdated model, he doesn't show it; he merely asks, while Harry casts half a dozen Safety Charms on the broom, "How afraid should I be of your revenge?"

"Oh, I'm sure I'll think of something _really_ interesting to teach your kid, Percy," Harry assures him while he carefully seats Lucia in front of him. "Now hold on here and here, sweetie, and don't let go. If you're afraid, just tell me and we'll go back, all right?"

Lucia just nods, her grin almost splitting her face in two when Harry kicks off the ground. At first, he flies in a slow, wide circle just a few feet above the ground, but Lucia will have none of it. "Higher, Dad! Higher, and faster!"

Since he knows it's perfectly safe, Harry indulges her, and he's oddly pleased by Lucia's joyful squeal when they pick up speed. He has his hand around her waist, but she still manages to lean forward as if she were trying to egg the broom on. "Can I make it go where I want?"

"You can try," Harry answers, "just steer it like you would steer your toy broom, slow and gentle – yes, very good!" Lucia has skilfully shifted her weight and, with just a little help from him, managed to take them into a long, sweeping arc over the whole garden. Pansy waves up at them as they pass the group under the tree.

"Shall we go back now?"

"No, Dad, no! I want to go higher!"

"Very well, if you say so..." Harry grabs her tighter and nudges the broom upwards. "Is that better?"

"Faster, too!" she cries, and Harry laughs, oddly proud at her daring. In a sudden flash of recklessness, he presses Lucia against his chest, urges the broom forward in a burst of speed and takes them into a loop. Lucia lets out a whoop of pure delight, and Harry remembers the rush he felt when he was flying for the first time, the exhilarating sensation when the ground fell away underneath him and he could go wherever he wanted, free like a bird in the air.

He's genuinely sorry when he eventually has to take them into a final dive among Lucia's cries of protest and lands beside the tree where the others are sitting. Pansy is grinning, her father and Percy are smiling, but Mrs Parkinson seems very pale. "That was – a bit irresponsible, Harry, don't you think?"

"Mum, please remember who you're talking to." Pansy sounds impatient, as if she were personally affronted by the suggestion that Harry might have put Lucia in danger. "Harry could have thrown her off the broom and caught her before she hit the ground without harming her."

Harry is taken aback; he has never heard Pansy praise him to anyone before. "Don't give her ideas, I bet she'd love that. She's completely fearless up there, and she was steering like she'd done it all her life." He knows he's exaggerating, but not by much.

"A true natural," Mr Parkinson says with a nod, "like Pansy said, she's taking after her father."

Harry remembers belatedly that this was meant as a compliment to him and does his best to smile. "Come here, poppet, and sit down for a while now." Lucia, her face still glowing with excitement, obediently sits in his lap, as if she wanted to be on her best behaviour in case there's a chance of a repeat performance.

"That was very impressive," Percy tells her with a smile, "and I'd love to stay and watch you fly some more, but I should be going home soon. Harry, there's something we need to talk about."

Harry has been expecting this; he didn't think Percy came here unannounced on a Sunday afternoon just to make a social call. "Shall we go inside?"

Percy shakes his head. "No need, it's just as well you should hear this too, Mr Parkinson, since it also concerns the Wizengamot. It seems that my predecessor has been systematically blocking any legal claims for the restitution of Death Eater property that was seized by the Ministry. I've found out about six different claims so far, made by relatives of convicted Death Eaters who were never found guilty of any crimes themselves, but I'm sure there are more. It's a matter that needs looking into – we can't very well keep the property if there are rightful heirs whose only fault is to have had the wrong sort of relatives."

Mr Parkinson just nods, but Harry has a feeling there's more to it. "That sounds reasonable, Percy, but what made it so urgent that you had to come here on a Sunday to tell me?"

Percy clears his throat. "One of the claims is for the restitution of Lucius Malfoy's Manor house, made by his widow, Narcissa."

Harry momentarily feels at a loss for words. Pansy throws him a look, but when he fails to say anything, she quickly asks, "Does that mean that she's coming back?"

"It seems like she wants to." Percy is looking not at her but at Harry when he adds, "I checked her file, and although she's never been accused of having participated in her husband's crimes, there's your testimony about her involvement in the death of Sirius Black and, to some extent, that of Albus Dumbledore as well. It won't be enough for a formal charge, but I can of course keep blocking her claim if you don't want her to return, Harry. I respected her son for what he did during the war, but I have no opinion on his mother, so I'll go with your decision in this matter."

Harry doesn't look at Pansy, but he feels her gaze fixed on him. His thoughts are racing, images of Sirius falling through the veil followed by the memory of Draco, his face ashen and his hand shaking, telling Dumbledore about Voldemort's threat to kill his parents. He recalls Kreacher's sneering face and Snape's account of the Unbreakable Vow Narcissa made him take to save her son, the photo of Narcissa with a six-year old Draco in Pansy's old album and Pansy's words to her unborn daughter, _That's your grandmother with your Dad. She's beautiful, isn't she? I'm sure you'll be just as pretty when you're grown._

At last his thoughts return to the little girl in his lap, who reminds him so much of her father with her fine, narrow features, grey eyes and pale skin, and he silently asks Sirius to forgive him.

_This is for you, Draco, because my loved ones are gone, but you have left me yours._

"Let her claim go through the proper channels, Percy, I have no interest in blocking it."

Percy nods gravely. "Very well. You needn't concern yourself too much about her at the moment, anyway; it will likely take her at least two years to get through with it, and a lot can happen until then."

  
* * *

  
"We need to start thinking about a nursery school for Lucia."

Harry, who has been lazily playing with a strand of Pansy's damp hair, withdraws his hand with an expression of horror.

"Please tell me that's not what you've been thinking about the whole time!"

Pansy gives him a suggestive wink. "Were you under the impression that my thoughts were elsewhere?"

"No, but remarks like that while we're still naked in bed together aren't terribly reassuring in that regard." Harry sits up and fishes for his pyjama bottoms that have somehow ended up under the bed.

Pansy watches him get dressed with a thoughtful expression. "You know I'm right, though; she's going on four, we can't put it off any longer. I've heard good things about the school Millicent is running together with her husband. He's a Ravenclaw and a half-blood like Millicent, so there shouldn't be any ruffled feathers on either side if we send her there."

Harry, who has just pulled his pyjama jacket over his head, emerges with his hair sticking up in every direction. "For Heaven's sake, is our choice of school for our daughter a matter of national interest, too?"

"You're the Head of the Department for Education, of course it is," Pansy replies with a shrug. "But we can talk about it tomorrow, if it makes you feel better."

"Thanks a lot." Harry sits down on her bedside with a sigh. "Couldn't you have decided that before you went and killed the mood?"

Pansy raises an eyebrow. "You mean you'd have been up for seconds if I hadn't brought it up?" When Harry doesn't answer, she sits up and snuggles up to him, her bare breasts pressing against his back through the thin material of his pyjamas. "Why didn't you say so before?" Her arms sneak around his waist from behind, and Harry leans back into her embrace when she starts nibbling at his earlobe.

"How was I to know that... oh... you were going to – what was that?"

He sits up abruptly when he hears it again: someone's knocking at the door of Pansy's bedroom.

"Oh, hell!" Pansy jumps out of bed and hastily throws on her pyjamas. "Did Lucia spend a night in your bedroom lately?"

"Yes, but wh-"

"Why didn't you say, you moron? Thank God I locked the door!"

Harry watches her with a puzzled frown. "Does that mean she comes to sleep in your room too?"

Pansy, who is halfway to the door, throws him a very dark look. "It took you until now to notice that she takes turns between your room and mine? No, don't tell me, you thought she only came to you, didn't you?" Before he can answer, she has opened the door. "Sweetie, did you have a bad dream again? Come on, it's all right, Mummy is here now..."

Pansy comes back into the room with Lucia in her arms, and the little girl's face lights up when she spots Harry sitting on the bed. "Daddy! Are you sleeping here too tonight?" She seems so pleased by the idea that Harry doesn't have the heart to tell her that he won't. He throws Pansy a helpless look, but she merely shrugs.

"It – er, it seems so, unless your Mum –"

"Shut up and get into bed, for pity's sake," Pansy hisses under her breath, and Harry sees no other choice than to comply. He's surprised himself how awkward he finds the whole situation; he's had sex with Pansy in this bed numerous times, but he has never actually slept here. The bed is certainly big enough for them, but that's not the issue. Really sleeping together, waking up next to each other, suggests a degree of intimacy that he isn't sure he and Pansy will ever reach.

Lucia appears very happy with the arrangement, though; her bad dreams seem forgotten, and she quickly falls asleep between them without even asking for one of the bedtime stories she has become so fond of lately. Harry watches her sleep and wonders how long it will take until she finally loses her fear of the darkness completely. Things have already got better since Harry, after a lot of searching, dug up a charm to conjure a Fairy Light for her, a tiny ball of softly glowing light that she can hold in her hand and take to bed with her. Ever since, the frequency of her nightly visits has been decreasing, although Harry still isn't over the revelation that Lucia obviously took care to divide them equally between his and Pansy's room.

Pansy leans over Lucia and softly kisses her on the forehead. "Good night, my dear, and sweet dreams. _Nox_!"

As the room goes dark, Harry hears Pansy's voice whispering, "Potter?"

"Yes?"

"I hope you don't snore."

Harry grins into the darkness, heedless of the fact that she won't be able to see it. "I don't, but I remember Draco mentioning that _you_ do."

It's silent for a moment before Pansy speaks up again. "Potter?"

"Hm?"

"Shut the hell up."

Harry's grin widens. "Good night to you too, Pansy."

  
* * *

  
Two weeks later, Harry is abruptly woken at half past one in the morning by a loud rap at the door. From the sound of it, it can't be Lucia, and he jumps out of bed with a feeling of dread because it's hardly ever good news that causes people to hammer against other people's bedroom doors in the middle of the night.

Pansy is standing in the corridor with a teary-eyed Lucia in her arms, her expression one of barely controlled annoyance. "Lucia just showed up in my bedroom."

"Oh." It's the only reply Harry can think of at the moment; Lucia hasn't come to his room since the night the three of them spent together in Pansy's bed, so he isn't sure why she'd go to Pansy again.

"Your daughter," Pansy continues with her eyes flashing dangerously, "seemed very surprised and extremely troubled by the fact that you weren't there."

If it weren't suicidal in the face of Pansy's anger, Harry would probably laugh now. Lucia's face is red and tear-stained, but her eyes are glittering with something that can only be described as satisfaction. _No doubt about her house indeed. Draco, how proud are you of her right now?_

With a theatrical sigh, Harry reaches for his dressing gown. He doesn't really mind all that much; it was actually quite nice to wake up in Pansy's bed. His arm had gone to sleep because Lucia was lying on it, but Pansy snoring softly into her pillow with a ridiculous bedhead was surprisingly cute to watch.

"Then I'll better come over, don't you think?"

"Probably." To his surprise, Pansy takes a step closer and casts a critical look around his bedroom. "You know, this might be a nice room for Lucia once the nursery becomes too small for her."

Harry just smiles and follows her out the door.

  
* * *

  
Pansy gives Harry an odd look when she returns from shopping in Diagon Alley with Lucia. "Sweetie, tell Mim to help you change and wash your hands, we'll have dinner in half an hour. You can show Dad your new robes afterwards."

Harry smiles when Lucia leaves the room with a pout; she's growing so fast now that she needs a new set of clothes every few months, and she's very peculiar about them and loves to show off new stuff. His smile evaporates when he notices Pansy's expression. "What's wrong?"

Pansy gestures for him to follow her into her study; she obviously doesn't want to be overheard, which makes Harry a bit apprehensive.

"We met Narcissa Malfoy at Madam Malkin's."

"Oh." Harry slowly lowers himself into one of Pansy's plush armchairs. "I had no idea she was showing herself in public already."

"Well, the fact that she brought her claim for the Manor through all the stages of appeal in less than eighteen months doesn't indicate she's desperate not to attract attention." Pansy has taken a seat across from Harry, her face carefully neutral.

"And she talked to you?"

"Yes, of course she did, we've known each other forever." Pansy hesitates for a moment, but then presses on. "She has invited us for tea next Sunday."

"You mean, 'us' as in you and Lucia?"

"No, I mean 'us' as in 'us'." Pansy sighs when she sees Harry frown. "And yes, before you ask, she knows perfectly well who I'm married to. She's remarkably up to date, as far as I could tell; makes you wonder who her informants were while she was in France."

"She's got some nerve, I'll give her that." Harry is rather surprised how calm he feels. "Pansy, you don't seriously believe I'd ever accept an invitation by Narcissa Malfoy? The fact that I did nothing to keep her from returning and getting the Manor back doesn't mean I did it for her sake, you know."

"Of course I know." Pansy is very serious now. "Let me tell you something about Narcissa Malfoy, Harry: she never cared much about politics our power, but she was capable of doing anything, and I mean _anything_, for her family's sake. She stood by Lucius because he was her husband, even though I'm sure she didn't have much interest in the Dark Lord herself; she did everything in her power to keep Draco from harm, and she only went into exile after Draco had left the Dark Lord because he convinced her that her continuing presence would make him vulnerable. I know that you blame her for Sirius Black's death, and you may even be right. Narcissa is the kind of woman who would kill with her own bare hands if she had to in order to protect her loved ones, and if you think she deserves punishment, I'm telling you that there could have been no harsher punishment for her than the fact that neither her husband nor her son survived the war while she did."

"It makes you wonder what keeps her going, doesn't it?" Harry asks quietly.

Pansy's eyes narrow. "What do you mean? She has no way of knowing about Lucia's parentage, if that's what you're thinking of. The only one besides you who knows is Snape, and he keeps his secrets."

"She's seen her now, though, hasn't she?"

"Yes, but..." Pansy hesitates again. "Harry, I know you keep saying how much Lucia looks like Draco, and I see it myself, but I'm afraid it's mostly because we _want_ to see him in her. She has his eyes, but apart from that, I doubt there's anything in her looks that would make anyone but us think of Draco."

Harry closes his eyes for a moment. "We're not telling Narcissa, then?"

"No, of course not. We've come quite far, but there's still a long way to go until it will be safe to be officially associated with the Malfoy family again. She knows that, by the way; you needn't fear that you'll find news about your visit to Malfoy Manor in the papers if you should decide to go."

Harry takes a deep breath. "Why are you so desperate to accept her invitation? Were you ever that fond of her?"

Pansy shrugs. "Not particularly, no. But she _is_ Lucia's grandmother, and I'd like Lucia to know about her roots, even if we can't tell her the truth at this point." She reaches out and, just for a moment, covers his hand with hers. "Harry, if you really don't want me to take Lucia to her, I won't. But promise you'll at least think about it, all right?"

Harry nods and remembers the expression on Draco's face when he spoke to Dumbledore about his parents. "I will."

  
* * *

  
Harry walks in on Pansy and Lucia looking at one of Pansy's photo albums in the living room the following evening. He stops short on the threshold, but Pansy merely raises her head for a second and silently beckons him to join them.

Harry sits down beside Lucia, who is looking at the pictures with rapt attention, and tries very hard to keep his hands from trembling. They've both told Lucia stories about Draco before; Harry knows Pansy has also shown her some photos, but never in his presence. Harry hasn't seen this particular album before, which is filled with photos from what must be their first years at Hogwarts, and he is strangely fascinated by seeing Draco laugh among his friends, his expression relaxed and free of malice, completely different from the sneer he wore whenever Harry got to see him. Of course, Harry thinks with a pang of bitter regret, it may well be that he has seen Draco laugh like this plenty of times and always saw malice in his laughter because he was expecting it.

_God, what I would give for a second chance._ Harry's gaze drifts from the photos to Lucia's face, which is set in an expression of concentration, and it seems to him he can hear Draco answer in his mind, _That's exactly what you've got here, Harry._

"Is that you, Mum?" Lucia asks, pointing at a short, dark-haired girl who's grinning and waving. Harry looks at the picture and can't help thinking that Pansy really didn't deserve to be called pug-faced even then; she wasn't pretty, but definitely not as hideous as his memory insists she was.

Pansy nods. "Yes, that's me, between Draco and Daphne Greengrass – you've met her at school, dear, she's Katie Davies' mum – during our second year."

"Why isn't Dad in any of the pictures?" The question is innocent enough, but Harry still tenses. Pansy, however, seems unperturbed. "That's because we weren't friends at school."

"But Dad said he was friends with Draco!" Lucia insists, and Pansy merely smiles. "Yes, but that was after school. Sometimes people don't get along so well at first and come to like each other later, you know?"

"Like you and Dad?" Lucia asks earnestly, and Harry and Pansy exchange a surprised look. Now it's Pansy who seems uncertain how to react, but Harry comes to her rescue. "Yes, like your Mum and I."

Lucia nods, obviously satisfied with the answer, and keeps listening to Pansy's explanation of the photos until she suddenly interrupts her with the question, "Are there any pictures of Dad when he was a boy?"

Pansy hesitates. "I have no idea. Are there, Harry?"

"Not many, but I have a few. Wait a moment, poppet, I'll be right back." Feeling oddly pleased, Harry goes to get the photo album Hagrid gave him all those years ago.

  
* * *

  
"Pansy, what a pleasure to have you here. Mr Potter, I'm happy you decided to accept my invitation. Please come in."

Harry didn't expect Narcissa Malfoy to open the door herself, since he can't imagine her living in the huge Manor without at least a dozen house-elves at her beck and call. She has aged considerably since he last saw her fifteen years ago; it's impossible to tell whether there's white in her blonde hair, but her face is much thinner and bonier than he remembers it, with fine lines in the corners of her eyes and mouth; there's an air of frailty about her, as if she were made of glass and might break at the lightest touch.

Her posture, however, is still elegantly poised when she steps back from the door to let them enter. Pansy pushes Lucia forward who, in a rare display of shyness, is holding on to her mother's robes, but obediently steps over the threshold. When Pansy and Harry try to follow her, however, a silvery barrier appears out of thin air and blocks their path, giving Harry a jolt that feels like an electric shock. His hand goes for his wand before his brain even has had time to catch up with what's happening, but Pansy's hand on his arm stops him before he can draw it.

"Don't, there's no need."

"I apologise," Narcissa says and banishes the barrier with a flick of her wand so that Harry and Pansy can enter; Harry quickly takes Lucia's hand to make sure they can't be separated again. "I realise this was inexcusably rude of me, but I hope you can understand that I had to be certain."

Harry has no idea what she's babbling about, but it seems that Pansy has.

"Blood Wards."

Narcissa inclines her head a fraction. "Indeed."

  
* * *

  
"Lucia, my dear, you must be quite bored by now. Would you like to go outside and play a bit? I'll send one of my house-elves to accompany you."

Lucia seems relieved, but she knows better than to just accept Mrs Malfoy's offer. "Mum, Dad, can I?"

"Of course, sweetie," Pansy answers before Harry can get a word in. He isn't happy about the idea of Lucia wandering around Malfoy Manor with only a Malfoy house-elf for company, and although Pansy has already agreed, he can at least make sure that Lucia is watched by someone he trusts.

"No need to bother your house-elves, Mrs Malfoy." Harry claps his hands, glad that he remembered to come prepared in case they need someone to look after Lucia. "Mim!"

Mim appears with a crack and bows deeply. "Mrs Malfoy, Mim is most glad to see you again."

Mrs Malfoy raises a pencilled eyebrow. "I didn't know you were in Mr Potter's service now."

"Mim takes care of Miss Lucia, Mrs Malfoy."

A small, sad smile plays around Narcissa's mouth for a moment. "How perfectly fitting."

"Yes, Mim thinks so too." To his astonishment, Harry sees Mrs Malfoy's smile reflected in Mim's face. He'd never have expected Mim to catch on about Lucia's true parentage, but judging from his expression, he has known for a long time. "Mim will be most glad to show Miss Lucia around the Manor."

When the elf has ushered Lucia out the door, Mrs Malfoy slowly sets her tea cup aside. "I take it you had no intention to tell me."

"You still didn't tell us how you knew in the first place," Harry reminds her, determined to play his cards close to his chest.

"I may have been in exile, Mr Potter, but I still read the papers. Do you honestly believe I wouldn't recognise a grandchild of mine in a press photo, especially when she looks exactly like my son did at the same age?"

Harry frowns. "You're trying to make me believe you saw a family resemblance in a photo of Lucia when she was two days old? Come on."

Mrs Malfoy gives him a cool look. "All infants may look the same to you, Mr Potter, but I assure you that's not the case for a mother. That, and the fact that you had married Pansy, with whom you had had no previous relationship, had me convinced that you were raising my son's daughter." Interpreting Harry's dumbfounded expression correctly, she adds calmly, "Yes, I did know about your involvement with Draco, in case you're still wondering. He was never very good at hiding anything from me that he felt strongly about."

"You know that you must not tell her about this, Mrs Malfoy, don't you?" Pansy sounds calm too, but it's obvious that she means it as a warning, not as a question.

"Of course," Narcissa replies, "I have no intention to upset her life, or yours, over this. I'm aware that she must never learn about her true – "

"Actually," Harry interrupts her, "we do intend to tell her eventually."

There is a pause; Narcissa looks as if she had trouble believing that she's heard him correctly. "You do."

"Absolutely," Harry replies firmly, "I have no intention to steal Draco's daughter from him; I want her to know who her father was once she's old enough and the time is right. She's but a child now, and Draco's reputation has not yet been cleared, but neither is going to remain true forever. Times are changing, Mrs Malfoy, you of all people should know that."

Narcissa keeps her gaze fixed on him, as if she were trying to read his true intentions in his eyes. "If it weren't the case, I wouldn't be here, Mr Potter, would I? The Minister informed me that I have you to thank you for that."

"Don't thank me." Harry keeps his tone deliberately icy. "I assure you I didn't do it for your sake."

Strangely, this seems to amuse Narcissa. "That, Mr Potter, goes without saying." She turns to Pansy when she continues, "Are you planning for her parentage to become public knowledge eventually?"

"You mean if we want her to carry Draco's name? You know I'd have to claim a secret marriage for that."

Narcissa gives a minuscule shrug. "That's not going to happen, is it? You would need two witnesses who could testify –"

"She has them."

Both Narcissa and Pansy turn to stare at Harry after that pronouncement. Narcissa's eyes are wide, Pansy's narrowed, but both look at him with equal disbelief.

At last, Narcissa turns back to Pansy. "You have two people to testify whose word would not be gainsaid? Who are they?"

Pansy's eyes are still on Harry when she answers. "One is Headmaster Snape. The other one –"

"- is me," Harry finishes calmly.

_Your mother was willing to send people to their deaths for you, Draco. What's a little lie for your daughter's sake, compared to that?_

Pansy's eyes are suddenly brimming with tears. "Harry..."

"I've been thinking," Harry says and reaches for her hand, "and it seems to me that it's time we take Lucia to the graveyard."

  
* * *

  
Lucia talks about nothing but the visit to the Manor for days. It's especially the ancestral gallery which seems to have impressed her greatly.

"There were so many pictures there, Daddy, and they all talked to me! They said they knew me!"

Since this is the tenth time she mentions it, Harry no longer feels uneasy about it; Mim has assured him the portraits didn't tell Lucia anything she isn't supposed to know.

"There even was a picture of Draco, but he was so small in it – a lot smaller than I am!" Lucia draws herself up proudly, as if to demonstrate her five-year old maturity. "And he talked to me and told me what it was like to live at the Manor! I've heard so many stories about him, it was great to talk to him!"

Harry hates magical portraits with a passion; in his experience, they make you feel the loss of the real person even more keenly by presenting an image that is nothing but echo and shadow.

"Lucia," he says gently while he sits down and pulls her on his lap, "you know that you didn't really talk to him, don't you? It was just an enchanted picture."

Lucia pouts. "I _know_, Dad, I'm not a baby!" She's playing with her pigtails, which is usually a sign that there's something on her mind. "Where is he, then?" she asks eventually. "I mean, if he's not in his picture, where did he go when he died?"

Harry takes a deep breath, forcing himself to keep smiling at her. "Why are you asking?"

"Mum said – she said we will go to see his grave soon. Is he there?"

"No, sweetie," Harry replies firmly, "it's difficult to understand, but it's only the body that gets buried. It's – you know, it's like a shell that remains behind when somebody dies." He isn't sure that a child of five will be able to understand this, but then, he thinks, it's not as if _anyone_ could ever truly understand these things.

Lucia nods earnestly. "But where do people go then? Do they become ghosts?"

This, at least, is somewhat firmer ground for a magical child than it is for Muggles. "Some of them do," Harry answers, "if they feel they still have unfinished business. Most people don't, though."

"And where do these go?" Lucia can be quite tenacious when she wants to get to the bottom of a question.

"I don't know, poppet." Harry pauses for a moment before he continues, with great care, "Nobody knows. The only thing I'm certain of is that those who – those who had loved ones never truly leave them; in some way, they are always around them."

Lucia frowns, and again, he wonders whether he told her more than a five-year old mind can cope with. At last, she asks, "Like your Mum and Dad?"

"Yes, like them, and many others who loved me and are no longer alive."

She ponders this further before she asks, "Draco too?"

Harry has to blink a few times to keep his eyes from misting over. "Yes, Draco too."

"Then why are we going to the graveyard?"

This gives Harry pause; it's a question he has never really asked himself. "It's a place of remembrance," he says eventually, "we go there as a sign that we have not forgotten those who are buried there, that their memory is still with us."

Lucia nods again, and Harry can only hope the answer made sense to her. "What does it look like?"

"It's very nice, you'll see. There are trees and flowers, and it's quiet and peaceful."

"Is it dark there?"

This is unexpected; it's been a while since Lucia has last spoken of her fear of the dark, and Harry has been hoping that she's over it. "We're going in the evening, but we'll be back before nightfall, so it won't be dark. Sometimes people also put candles on the graves to make sure that the nights aren't so dark at the graveyard."

She slides from his lap, looking excited. "When are we going?"

Harry smiles at her enthusiasm, even though he's not sure what made her so eager all of a sudden. "Soon, poppet, I promise."

  
* * *

  
"Here we are."

Pansy lets go of Lucia's hand when they reach Draco's grave. Harry, who has been walking behind them, steps up to Pansy and, after a glance at her face, wraps an arm around her shoulders since she looks ready to burst into tears. He has never seen her like this, not even when he caught her at her lonely visit to the graveyard shortly after Lucia's birth.

Lucia takes a tentative step forward. "Can I...?"

"Just go ahead," Pansy tells her, and Harry is glad to hear that her voice is still firm.

Lucia steps up to the headstone and inspects it carefully. She runs her fingers over the inscription just like Pansy did back then, and Harry realises that his own eyes are beginning to sting now. He has been here more often than he can count, but this is different; the sight of Lucia beside her father's grave is something that will stay with him for a long time.

"What does it say?"

Pansy reads the inscription to her and translates the Latin words, and Lucia just nods with great solemnity and doesn't ask anything else.

Up in the sky, the reddish glow of the sunset is fading. They had to come late in the evening to make sure there were no other visitors at the graveyard because Harry's and Lucia's presence at Draco's grave would raise questions Harry is not prepared to answer yet.

He hopes very much that there will come a day when he can stand here in broad daylight without having to hide.

"It's getting dark, poppet, we should leave now," Harry admonishes Lucia eventually and holds out his hand towards her, but she shakes her head.

"Not yet, Daddy, I've brought something..."

She reaches into the folds of her cloak and pulls out a tiny, glowing ball – the Fairy Light that she has kept on her bedside table ever since Harry conjured it for her. She places it on the stone slab that covers the grave, where it casts a small circle of warm, soft light on the dark stone. Then she takes a step back to admire the arrangement and says, in a tone of deep satisfaction, "Now he won't have to worry about the dark any more."

Harry hastily wipes his eyes with his sleeve, but a look at Pansy tells him that he needn't have bothered. The tears are flowing freely over Pansy's cheeks; she neither makes a sound nor moves to wipe them away, and Harry tightens his arm around her shoulders since there is nothing else he can do to make this easier for her.

_I can only hope that I do get to see you again one day, you selfish bastard, so that I can kick your arse for expecting us to deal with the mess you left behind_, Harry thinks grimly and takes some consolation from the image of Draco's affronted face in his mind. _That is, if Pansy doesn't get to you first._

  
* * *

  
Harry has come to love these moments, when he's spooned tightly against Pansy's naked back with his arm around her so that he can idly play with her breasts while they both get their breath back. Pansy often teases him about his fixation with her breasts, but it doesn't bother him particularly; he likes the feeling of them, warm, smooth and soft, when he traces their swell with his hands and teases the nipples with his fingertips.

Lately, though, he has noticed that they feel a bit different, their usual softness replaced by a taut, heavy fullness. They also seem more sensitive, because Pansy yelps and swats his hand away when he gently pinches her nipple. "Ouch!"

"Sorry," he replies, a bit stung by the ungracious reaction, "I thought you liked – "

"Is there nothing useful you could be doing with your hands instead?" she asks pointedly, taking Harry by surprise – it's very unlike Pansy to ask for more immediately after a quite satisfying first round.

He obediently lets his hand glide lower while he leans forward to whisper in her ear, "Look who's randy tonight!"

"Shut up, Potter," she hisses at him, "there are –"

"- more useful things I could be doing with my mouth," Harry finishes for her and starts nibbling at her neck while his fingers slip between her thighs and start stroking. She covers his hand with hers, increasing the pressure, and Harry is surprised again; she seems to like sex with him well enough, but she's hardly ever this eager. She comes quickly, her body tightening and trembling under his touch, her pulse fluttering under his lips on her neck, and he can't help wondering what it is that got her so worked up tonight.

It takes a while until her breathing returns to normal, but when she has finally calmed down, she turns on her back and gives Harry a shrewd look. "You know, I've been thinking."

"Oh no, not again!" Harry flings an arm over his face with a groan. "Pansy, can we, just for once, _not_ discuss politics, school, or your parents right after?"

"Not a problem," she replies, completely unabashed, "I had something else in mind. I've been thinking about what you told Mrs Malfoy."

Harry tenses. "What do you mean?"

"When you said that you'll give me your testimony, so that Lucia can come into her inheritance. Are you really sure you're all right with that? With her being Draco's heiress instead of yours, I mean?"

"Yes, of course I am." Harry has no idea where she's going with this; when has he ever cared about matters of inheritance and family names? It was Draco who considered these things important, not him. "She's his daughter, and I'm sure it's what he would have wanted."

"But what about you? Wouldn't you want to see your line continued? The Potters are a very old and respected family, after all."

Harry shakes his head. "Pansy, why are you worrying about that all of a sudden? I don't remember my parents or any other relatives from my father's side, so the Potter family line really is none of..."

He falls silent when it's finally beginning to dawn on him what this might really be about. "Pansy, is this your extremely roundabout way of telling me that you want another child?" Now that he hears himself say the words, it seems exceedingly strange that this possibility has never even occurred to him before.

"No," Pansy replies curtly, and Harry decides to immediately forget about the idea because there is every chance that he'll start liking it if he allows himself to ponder it further.

When Pansy doesn't elaborate, however, he sits up and frowns at her. "Well, what is it then? You still haven't told me why you're suddenly contemplating the Potter pedigree."

"Potter, you complete, utter idiot." Pansy pushes herself up on her elbows and gives him a look that is half exasperation and half pity. "I'm trying to tell you that I'm pregnant. Was that clear enough, or do I have to puke all over you to drive my point home? Because that can probably be arranged soon enough."

She raises an eyebrow when Harry just stares at her, his mouth open and his mind completely numb. "Well? What do you say?"

Eventually, all that Harry gets out is a strangled, "Really? I mean – you're sure?"

Her face is lit up by a soft little smile when she replies, "I'm sure, yes." At last, she takes pity on him and holds out her hand towards him to break him out of his stupor. "Come here."

"I'm sorry," Harry murmurs into her hair once her arms are around him, "it's just that – I never thought..."

He rather feels than hears the low chuckle deep in Pansy's chest that is pressed against his own. "You'll get used to the idea."

"Yes," Harry answers and feels a curious warmth spread within him while he holds her as tightly as he dares, "I'm sure I will."


	9. Chapter 9

**From the Ashes  
Epilogue**

by Fourth Rose

  
_Du bist ein Schatten am Tage  
Und in der Nacht ein Licht  
Du lebst in meiner Klage  
Und stirbst im Herzen nicht._

_You are a shadow at daytime  
And in the dark, a light  
You live on in my mourning  
And won't die in my heart._

_(Friedrich Rückert, Kindertotenlieder / Songs on the Death of Children) _

  
* * *

  
The little boy squeals with delight when his toy broom rises gently into the air, although it's barely audible over the whoops and yells from the group of children high above the garden who are passing a Quaffle back and forth between them. Harry, who is sitting in the grass under the old oak tree and directing the toy broom with his wand, occasionally squints up towards the impromptu Quidditch practice to check that Lucia and her schoolmates aren't trying any stunts that are too dangerous for eight-year olds.

He can't help being cautious, although he knows that there's no need to worry since Robert Parkinson, proud of his status as a near-adult and eager to prove that he's able to take the responsibility that comes with it, is flying right among them to keep them in line. Rob is a fine flyer, Keeper on the Ravenclaw team at Hogwarts, and he'd rather eat his broomstick before he'd let any harm come to his beloved little cousin.

Harry has always found Rob's devotion to Lucia rather adorable, although Pansy lately has begun to tease her nephew whether he's going to propose to Lucia one day since he seems to taken with her. This usually causes Rob to flush with all the angry embarrassment that a fourteen-year old boy can muster and makes Harry feel rather uneasy, given that he knows quite a bit about pureblood marriage customs. He made the mistake of mentioning to Pansy that he didn't find this joke particularly funny, which led to her predicting that he'd soon turn into one of those fathers who would prefer to strangle every male in their daughter's vicinity just to be on the safe side.

It irks Harry somewhat that he has a fleeting suspicion she might have a point.

For the time being, however, he consoles himself with the fact that it will still be several years before his little girl takes an interest in boys; right now, flying seems to be the thing that matters most in the world to her. She flat-out refused when Harry and Pansy offered to hire a flying instructor for her two years ago, when they bought her her first real broom.

"I want to learn from the best flyer in England, and that's Dad," she said with that stubborn set of the jaw that she has inherited from Pansy. In the face of such confidence, Harry has done his best to squeeze at least two weekly practices with her into his busy schedule, and there's no denying that it's paying off. Lucia is indeed a natural - graceful, fast and utterly fearless, and he has no doubt she'll make it onto her house team at Hogwarts without any trouble.

"Daddy!" the little boy cries out in protest, snapping Harry out of his reverie and reminding him that he has forgotten to keep the toy broom in motion. With a flick of his wand, Harry sends it into a slow, wide circle once more, and his son grips the handle tighter with a delighted expression.

His son. Alexander James Potter, who has Harry's jet-black hair (even messier than Harry's because it's slightly curly like Pansy's) and brown eyes that are the subject of much debate: Pansy insists that Alex has her mother's eyes, while Harry (backed up by Remus Lupin) claims that they look just like his own father's.

Harry wasn't quite sure what to expect when Alex was born, but he soon realised that the question of their parentage makes little difference to him when it comes to his children. Pansy once asked him about it, and Harry answered her truthfully that he could no more decide whether he loved Lucia or Alex more than he could say whether he liked his left or his right eye better – he'd be half-blind if he lost either of them.

Besides, he somehow likes the idea that his son and Draco's daughter are siblings.

They get along well, which, as Pansy likes to point out, is a beautiful irony in itself (Harry suspects that she's quite curious to find out who of the two will turn out to be the better flyer). Lucia seems to regard her little brother as her favourite toy, which led to a couple of incidents because she doesn't always quite understand what might be dangerous to a two-year old who's none too steady on his feet yet. Harry had to threaten to take her broom away for good to keep her from taking Alex flying – he doesn't like being strict with her, but Lucia knows by now that he means it once he really puts his foot down.

He thinks it's a pity that Lucia will have to leave for Hogwarts by the time Alex is old enough for the two of them to do things together. Harry's in two minds himself when he thinks about it; he's looking forward to seeing her in Hogwarts robes, but he doesn't want to imagine how empty the house will be without her. It makes him even more determined to spend as much time with his little girl as possible as long as he has her around.

His mother-in-law once told him that she would have liked to stop time so that her children would remain small forever and she would never have to let go of them. He understands the feeling, but he doesn't quite share it. He will be sorry to see Lucia leave for school, but he often lets his thoughts wander even further into the future, to the time when she comes of age, and he will finally be able to tell her who she really is.

Harry thinks about that day whenever his thoughts return to Draco, which happens with even greater frequency than during the first years after Draco's death. In a way, he feels like he's growing closer to Draco over the years, now that the sharp, burning pang of loss is slowly easing. The pain is still there, but it has faded to the dull ache from an old war wound – ever-present, reminding him that he can never be truly whole again, but so familiar by now that it has become a part of him.

He likes to think that he is keeping his promise to Draco's daughter. It's a slow and tiring process, but he treasures each little step forwards towards a world that is no longer torn between fractions that hate each other, a world where Lucia will be able to bear her father's name with pride. There's a strange feeling of peace that comes from the knowledge that there's a purpose to his struggles, a goal that will be worth all the effort he has put into it. He no longer feels like he's trying to steer a ship during a storm at sea these days; it's more like he has to row a boat upstream. The current is steady and constant; it never weakens, but moving against it does get easier over time because he is growing stronger from it.

He keeps picturing the moment when Lucia will learn the truth. She will come home for Christmas during her sixth year, tall, slender and graceful like Draco, proud in her Slytherin uniform; he and Pansy will take her to the graveyard, hand her the documents that will give her back her family name, and finally tell her.

Harry imagines a seventeen-year old Lucia turning towards Draco's headstone to run her fingers over the letters of his name like she did as a little girl, then looking at him with a small smile and tears in her eyes, Draco's eyes, and saying, "Dad, I think I've known for a long time."

He isn't worried that things might change between Lucia and him once she knows; she will remain his little girl for as long as she lives. He pictures a Hogwarts letter addressed to Miss Lucia Malfoy, containing a Head Girl badge, and he feels his heart swelling with pride. He thinks about the woman she will grow into, strong and beautiful and proud of who she is, and he knows she is worth every difficulty he still has to overcome.

He imagines how Alex will grow up alongside his sister, how she will point him out to her classmates at his Sorting and hope for him to be Sorted into her house (Harry has no difficulties picturing his and Pansy's son as a Slytherin, although he keeps his fingers crossed for Alex to beat the odds and end up in Gryffindor). Harry swears to himself that he'll make Snape regret it until the end of his life if he dares to take out his grudge against Alex' father and grandfather on the boy, but he keeps hoping that even the Headmaster will eventually be able to let go of the past.

He often marvels at how far he has come, how lucky he has been in many regards to be given this second chance. When he thinks of the losses in his past, the gaping holes in his life that can never be filled, his thoughts eventually return to Lucia and Alex and the future he can build for them.

Sometimes, Harry also thinks about Pansy and how they will never be anything but second best to each other. Still, he reckons, second best is more than most people get in their lives.

So when Hermione pays another of her rare, awkward visits and can't even wait until Pansy is fully out of the door before she grabs his hand and says in that tone of honest concern she's so good at, "Just tell me this, Harry – are you happy?", Harry looks not at her but at Pansy who has stopped short on the threshold and answers quietly, "I'm content, I suppose."

Hermione frowns; she doesn't understand and he doesn't expect her to. Pansy closes the door behind her without turning back, but he knows that there's that little half-smile on her lips now.

And in the part of his mind where Draco is and will always be present, Harry can see him nod his approval.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

# FIN

 


End file.
